THE 

YI110W 


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E.  Manchester  5odcly 


THE 

YELLOW 
TRAIL 


BODDY 


TIMES-MIRROR 
PRESS 

LOS  ANGELES 


YEI10W 


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Roddv 


/.&*> 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

A  Story  of  Salmon  River  Gold) 


E.  MANCHESTER  BODDY 


TIMES  -MIRROR  PRESS 
10S  ANGELES 


Copyright,  1922 

by 

Times- Mirror  Press 
Los  Angeles,  California 

All  rights  reserved 


HI 

y 


DEDICATION 

To  Mrs.  Theodore  Keehn,  whose  untiring 
efforts  during  the  late  world  war  provided  so 
many  books  for  blind  soldiers,  this  book  is 
affectionately  dedicated. 


......... 


CHAPTER  I 

DKTER  ALDEN,  JR.,  drifted  into  Moapa, 
•*•  Montana,  with  the  first  November  snow. 
The  town  was  cold  and  already  dark  when  he 
faced  its  long,  half-deserted  streets  that  barely 
separated  snowed-in  houses  and  ended  in  a  trad 
ing  center  dismal  and  dreary  in  the  pale  yellow 
of  street  lights. 

The  frigid  aspect  of  the  night  meant  little 
to  Pete  as  he  leaned  against  the  wind  and 
walked  defiantly  into  it.  His  skin  was  stung 
with  cruel  biting  lashes,  and  he  wanted  it  so. 
Perhaps  it  would  deaden  the  infernal  gnawing 
of  his  conscience.  It  would  punish  him  out 
wardly,  anyhow,  and  that  would  help.  He 
pressed  on.  Long  into  the  night  he  fought  his 
way  from  one  deserted  street  to  another,  re 
tracing  his  steps  a  dozen  times.  Try  as  he 
would,  however,  he  could  not  shake  his  tor 
mentor  from  him.  In  desperation  he  challenged 
it  to  bear  witness  to  his  self-inflicted  punish 
ment.  It  scoffed  at  him.  "No  use  trying,"  he 
muttered,  and  stopped  short.  The  warm  light 
of  a  saloon  flooded  the  frozen  sidewalk.  With 
faltering  step  and  heavy  heart  he  turned,  faced 
the  door,  and  let  the  wind  hurl  him  into  the 
refuge  of  sickening  smoke  and  stale  liquor.  No 


8  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

use  fighting  when  the  man  within  you  turns 
enemy ! 

Pete  looked  about  him  and  thanked  God 
he  knew  no  one  in  Moapa,  that  he  didn't  have 
to  smile,  apologize,  or  explain  to  anyone.  So 
far  as  the  two  dozen  or  so  loafers  about  him 
knew,  he  had  a  perfect  right  to  be  there !  He 
sank  into  a  three-legged  low-seated  chair  and 
hoisted  his  feet  to  the  rail  about  the  stove. 

For  a  few  moments  he  stared,  as  though 
fascinated,  at  the  dull  red  spots  on  the  heater. 

"Hello  there,  young  feller,  have  a  drink." 

Pete  looked  into  a  coarse  repulsive  face. 
He  didn't  like  the  man.  At  any  other 
time  he  would  have  refused  to  drink  with  him. 
But  now,  he  had  no  judgment.  If  he  had,  why 
was  he  here?  When  had  his  judgment  ever 
guided  him  aright?  Never!  He  would  play 
it  just  the  opposite  from  now  on!  Anyhow, 
was  there  a  human  too  low  for  him  to  drink 
with?  If  there  was,  he'd  like  to  meet  him!  He 
would  drink  with  this  man,  with  any  man,  as 
long  as  his  money  lasted!  So  declaring,  he 
rose  from  his  seat  and  strode  toward  the  bar, 
where  the  stranger  stood,  hat  pushed  back  on 
his  head  and  his  fingers  beating  an  idle  tattoo 
on  the  heavy  oak. 

"Thanks,  stranger,  I'll  be  glad  to"— Pete's 
greeting  seemed  a  trifle  mechanical  and  he 
added,  "Rotten  night,  isn't  it?" 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  9 

"Oh,  not  so  bad,  not  so  bad.  'Spect  this 
here,  ya  know.  Stranger  in  these  parts?" 

Pete  hesitated,  "Well,  rather,  I'm  from 
farther  west.  Let's  drink." 

"Knew  you  wasn't  a  scissor-bill,"  the  man 
apologized.  "You  look  good  enough  to  drink 
with  me." 

Pete  winced. 

"Whiskey,"  they  ordered  together. 

The  first  drink  only  aggravated  matters. 
More  followed.  Within  an  hour  Pete  found 
himself  in  the  center  of  a  half  dozen  or  so 
drunken  loafers.  The  more  he  drank,  the  more 
he  felt  himself  to  be  one  of  them.  Raising  his 
glass  and  with  bitter  sarcasm  accentuated  by  the 
drooping  corners  of  his  mouth,  he  proposed  a 
toast: 

"Here's  to  what  I  ought  to  be,"  and  he 
poured  half  his  liquor  into  the  gutter  by  the 
bar,  "and  here's  to  what  I  am,  the  rottenest  one 
of  you  all !"  and  he  drained  his  glass.  Whiskey, 
drink  after  drink,  from  a  coarse  brown  bottle 
followed.  As  he  drank,  he  talked.  Something 
in  his  manner  and  speech  convinced  the  man 
who  first  spoke  to  him  that  the  stranger  from 
"further  west"  might  be  worth  knowing  better. 
Gently,  but  surely,  he  separated  Pete  from  the 
crowd  and  made  for  a  warm  corner  behind  the 
stove. 

"Stranger,  you're  gettin'  drunk,"  he  began. 


10  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

"My  name's  Garret,  Buller  Garret.  Some  of 
'em  calls  me  Bull,  but  that's  only  because  my 
front  name's  Buller.  I  ain't  so  bad  as  I  looks. 
I  know  you  didn't  sort  of  go  crazy  about  me 
when  I  braced  you  here  awhile  back.  But  that's 
all  right.  You're  packin'  a  lot  of  trouble  'round 
with  you,  I  can  tell.  Now  jes'  suppose  you 
unload  it  on  Buller.  Why,  damme,  I've  had 
more  trouble  than  a  mangy  coyote  and  I  allus 
knows  what  to  do.  Now  jes'  talk  about  it  and 
tell  Bull,  what  say,  hey,  pardner?" 

Pete  needed  no  urging.  For  over  two  weeks 
he  had  talked  to  no  one.  Buller's  soft  voice 
came  like  music  to  his  deadened  senses  and  he 
plunged  hungrily  into  a  drunken  jabber. 

"God,"  he  began,  "s'been  a  long  time  since 
I  got  cry — cryin'  drunk,  not  drunk  now,  though. 
Tha's  one  thing  I  won't  do,  ain't  so  sure,  tho — 
Mebbe  I'll— I'll— guess  I'll  get  drunk.  You 
drunk,  Bull— Bull— Bully?  Ha!  Ha!  Ha, 
Ha,  Bully,  tha's  a  good  one,  Bully — tell  me — 
Bull— 'm  I  drunk?" 

"  'Course  not.  You're  jes'  goin'  to  tell 
your  old  pal,  Buller,  who  you  are  an*  all  about 
it,  you're — " 

"That's  right,  Pete,  tha's  me.  Peter  Alden. 
Bully  an'  Peter,  tha's  good!  Ha,  ha!  But 
Peter  ain't  so  good,  ain't  no  good,  an*  Peter 
knows  it.  All  of  'em  know  it.  It's  no  go, 
Bully,  s'no  go.  I'm  a  bad  lot  to  hang  around 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  11 

with;  know  who  I  am?  Peter  Alden!  Peter 
Alden,  Jr. — heavy  on  the  jar.  Old  man 
Alden's  worthless  son,  San  Francisco,  tha's  the 
place,  damn  The  City.  Old  man's  got  a  bank 
there,  got  lots  of  banks.  Needed  'em  to  keep 
Peter  J-a-r  goin'.  Old  Man's  .  .  ." 

The  bad  whiskey  and  warm  foul  air  wilted 
Peter's  brain,  and  he  sank  helplessly  to  the 
floor.  Duller  wanted  to  hear  more,  but  ex 
perience  told  him  Pete  was  through  talking. 
He  winked  heavily  for  the  barkeeper. 

"Slip  me  a  coupla  blank  checks.  Got  a  live 
one.  He'll  think  he's  signin'  up  at  the  Club. 
Old  man's  a  banker  Frisco  way,  too;  cinch, 
mor'n'  likely  lost  son.  Nice  boy;  we're  sorry, 

ain't  we?" 

*     *     *     * 

In  San  Francisco,  Peter  Alden,  Sr.,  bank 
president  and  financier,  with  far  flung  interests 
throughout  the  Pacific  Northwest,  paced  the 
deep  carpet  of  his  private  office.  His  face  was 
haggard  and  his  strong,  broad  shoulders,  or 
dinarily  carrying  fifty-five  years  with  the  grace 
of  youth,  sagged  forward  helplessly.  During 
his  many  years  of  active  business  life  he  had 
often  been  called  upon  to  face  stern  facts.  Al 
ways  his  judgment  had  been  tempered  with 
justice  and  humane  principles,  and  he  had  won 
praise  for  many  things.  But  to  him,  most 
gratifying  of  all,  next  to  his  reputation  for  ab- 


12  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

solute  honesty  and  justice,  was  the  love  and 
esteem  of  his  friends,  of  whom  he  counted 
many.  One,  in  particular,  old  Judge  Stivers, 
John,  he  called  him,  had  been  for  twenty  years 
his  constant  companion  and  adviser. 

He  was  waiting  for  the  Judge  now  as  he 
paced  nervously  back  and  forth.  Presently  the 
door  opened  and  a  thin,  slightly  stooped  man 
of  sixty  entered.  His  grey  beard  and  mustache 
formed  a  perfect  van  dyke,  quite  in  keeping 
with  his  well-groomed  appearance  generally. 

"Good  morning,  John.  Sit  down."  Alden 
indicated  a  chair  near  his  desk  and  finished  his 
course  across  the  room. 

The  Judge  seemed  entirely  aware  that 
something  unusual  was  in  the  air.  "What's  the 
trouble,  Peter?  What's  wrong?" 

"It's  he,"  Alden  pointed  to  a  large  framed 
picture  on  his  desk.  "He's  gone;  ugly  rumors 
about  town." 

"But  you  told  me  only  two  days  ago  every 
thing  was  settled!" 

"Yes,  settled  for  two  days.  Here  are  the 
papers  just  as  I  fixed  them."  Alden  tapped  a 
heap  of  matter  before  him.  "These  are  bills, 
thousands  of  dollars.  I  arranged  privately  to 
pay  them,  on  condition  that  the  creditors  would 
continue  to  demand  payment  from  him.  Only 
way  to  do  it,  John.  I  arranged  a  position  for 
him  as  cashier  with  the  Pacific  Central  lines. 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  13 

He  wouldn't  work  for  me.  The  girls,  yes  *  * 
here  are  the  letters.  Settled  them  all.  Damn 
vampires!  But  everything  was  straight  as  a 
die,  John,  just  as  the  boy  told  it  to  me,  and 
they  couldn't  deny  it!" 

The  Judge  looked  mystified.  All  of  this 
he  had  heard  before. 

Alden  caught  the  expression.  His  shoulders 
came  back  with  a  snap  and  the  old  fighting 
glint,  the  look  that  had  made  many  a  board  of 
rebellious  directors  come  to  terms,  flamed  in 
his  eye.  His  fist  came  down  with  a  bang. 

"John,  my  boy  might  be  wild.  He  doesn't 
know  the  value  of  money.  He  might  and  has 
made  mistakes  with  women,  but  my  boy  has 
never  lied  to  me,  and  he  is  not  a  thief!''  Alden's 
voice  thundered  the  last  sentence  out  as  he 
threw  a  telegram  before  the  astonished  Judge. 

John  Stivers  had  never  in  twenty  years 
seen  his  friend  assert  himself  so  violently.  He 
quickly  adjusted  his  glasses  and  read: 

"Peter  Alden,  Sr., 

Alden  National  Bank,  San  Francisco. 

Your  son  missing  all  efforts  to  locate  him  have  failed 
safe  robbed  fifty  thousand  dollars  looks  bad  advise 
action  at  once. 

Geo.  Stone,  Gen.  Mgr., 
Pacific  Central  Ry.  Co." 

Alden  pulled  up  in  front  of  the  Judge  and 
waited. 

"Well?"  he  thundered  as  the  former  laid 
the  message  down  and  calmly  placed  his  glasses 


14  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

in  his  pocket.  "Well,  well!  You  see  that? 
My  God,  man !  They've  called  my  son  a  thief ! 
A  thief!  An  Alden  a  thief!  Missing,  bah! 
He  gave  me  his  word,  I  tell  you;  he  can't  be 
missing !  A  thief !"  With  the  rage  of  a  strong 
man  gone  wild,  Alden  circled  about,  pounding 
and  stamping  alternately. 

The  Judge  grasped  his  first  opportunity. 

"Now,  now,  Peter,"  he  urged,  "I  know 
your  boy.  Why,  I've  raised  him  as  much  as 
you  have.  He's  no  thief,  certainly  not.  There's 
some  mis — " 

"Mistake  nothing!"  thundered  Alden.  "It's 
a  lie.  It's  a  trick!  They're  making  a  goat  out 
of  an  Alden.  I'll  have  none  of  it.  John,  you 
produce  that  boy!  Call  the  detectives.  Spend 
money;  you  know  how  to  do  it.  But  get  that 
boy!" 

"Quiet,  Peter,  quiet.  Don't  lose  your 
head;  if  there's  crooked  work  here,  all  the 
more  reason  to  be  calm.  There's  lots  of  time. 
Come,  sit  down." 

Reluctantly,  Alden  gave  way  to  utter  ex 
haustion  and  sank  into  his  chair.  "What  can 
we  do,  John,  what  can  we  do?  I'm  all  broken 
up.  Couldn't  sleep  last  night.  Felt  something 
was  wrong  with  Peter.  Something  awfully 
wrong,  John." 

A  secretary  knocked  timidly  at  the  door. 
The  Judge  bade  her  enter,  and  took  a  special 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  15 

delivery  letter  from  her  hand.  Both  men  recog 
nized  the  handwriting  at  the  same  instant. 
Alden  reached  for  it  with  savage  eagerness, 
tore  it  open,  and  read: 

"Dear  Dad: 

By  this  time  you've  had  the  truth.  God  knows  I've 
done  enough  in  the  past  to  kill  your  trust.  Now  I've 
broken  my  word.  I  don't  care  about  the  money.  I 
knew  you  paid  the  bills,  as  you  always  do.  Where 
I'm  going  it  won't  cost  you  anything.  I'm  just  worth 
less,  Dad,  just  worthless.  I  might  be  a  man  some  day, 
I'm  not  promising  any  more.  But  if  I  ever  am,  I'll 
come  back.  Until  then,  I  only  hope  you  won't  be  hurt 
too  much.  Think  the  best  you  can  of  me  under  the 
circumstances.  Never  mind  where  I'm  going.  I  don't 
know. 

Your  loving  son, 

Peter." 

Without  a  word  Alden  passed  the  letter  to 
his  friend.  For  fully  a  minute  neither  spoke. 

Alden  was  first  to  break  the  silence.  His 
face  was  blanched,  his  voice  weak  with  evident 
pain,  and  poorly  concealed  emotion.  He 
placed  a  trembling  hand  on  the  shoulder  of 
his  friend. 

"John,"  his  voice  shook  as  he  spoke,  "fix 
the  papers.  He  isn't  my  son  any  more.  Stop 
the  news  if  you  can.  Don't  mention  his  name 
anymore.  You  understand?  I'm — I'm  going 
out  now.  Good-bye,  John.  Come  to  the  house 
tonight.  I'll  be  alone  there  now." 

"Peter,  do  you  value  the  word  of  an  old 
friend?  Listen,  your  boy  did  not — could  not — 
wait  Peter.  Listen,  I  can  prove  it,  I  can — " 


16  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

"John,  you  have  his  letter.  That  settles 
it.  Don't  mention  it  again.  Please,  John,  don't 
mention  it  again.  Good-bye." 


CHAPTER  II 

on,  you!  Whadda  think  this  is, 
free  lodgin'  joint?  Come  on,  outside, 
bum!  Outside!" 

Pete  stared  blankly.  Bum?  Outside?  He 
blinked  reflectively.  Someone  was  rudely 
kicking  the  soles  of  his  feet!  He  drew  them 
under  him  and  sat  up.  A  burly  roustabout 
hung  over  him. 

"Well,  keep  movin',  keep  movin'.  Can't 
live  here!  Been  sleepin'  all  night  now;  come 
on,  outside!" 

Slowly  Pete  roused  himself.  The  room 
seemed  strange,  nothing  familiar  greeted  him, 
and  it  was  horribly  dirty.  He  staggered  un 
steadily  to  his  feet.  His  stomach  felt  sick  and 
his  head  ached.  Many  lights,  with  strange 
colors,  danced  before  his  eyes.  He  apologized 
to  the  roustabout  and  started  uncertainly  for 
the  bar. 

"Got  any  money?"  the  barkeeper  growled 
as  he  approached. 

Pete  fumbled  foolishly  at  a  pocket. 
Nothing  came  out.  He  tried  another,  nothing 
there. 

"Guess  not.     Where  am  I?" 

"  'Bout  three  jumps  this  side  of  the  hoos- 


18  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

gow.  Here,  drink  this."  The  bartender 
shoved  a  hot  whiskey  toward  him. 

Pete  gulped  it  down  and  started  for  the 
door.  The  sun  cast  a  sickly  light  through  the 
murky  window  panes.  Outside  a  boy  was 
shouting,  "Moapa  Press — Sunday  morning  pa 
per — All  about  the  Pis-siffic  Central  robbery." 

"Pacific  Central,"  "Moapa,"  the  words 
hung  in  Pete's  fevered  brain.  A  new  feeling 
came  into  his  stomach.  "Great  safe  robbery — 
morning  paper — five  cents,  thanks  mister, 
mornin'  paper.  Oh,  ho-o-o  !" 

Pete  tried  to  think,  as  he  made  again  for 
the  door.  A  paper,  that  was  it — he  wanted 
a  paper,  of  course.  Again  he  fumbled  at  his 
pocket.  No  money.  His  head  was  clearer 
now.  Perhaps  he  could  find  a  paper  in  the 
saloon.  He  turned  about  and  commenced  an 
unsuccessful  staggering  search  about  the  room. 

The  little  Moapa  Press,  with  feature  stories 
always  several  days,  sometimes  a  week  late, 
could  have  given  Pete  real  news.  There, 
within  his  grasp,  had  been  a  sensational  story 
of  an  unknown  thief  who  stole  fifty  thousand 
dollars  from  a  cashier's  safe,  his  safe,  on  the 
very  night  he  had  so  mysteriously  disappeared. 
Clouded  as  his  brain  was,  it  would  have  been 
stunned  into  drastic  action  by  the  thought  of  the 
effect  the  incriminating  news  must  have  on  his 
father.  But  the  newsboy  and  his  shouting 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  19 

moved  on  down  the  street.  Pete,  after  several 
unsuccessful  rounds  in  the  immediate  proximity 
of  the  bar,  forgot  the  paper. 

The  little  saloon  began  to  teem  with  men. 
Men  of  a  different  stamp  than  the  loafers  of 
the  night  before.  Brisk,  energetic  men  of  the 
hills  and  plains!  Pete  was  forgotten  in  the 
throng,  and  as  his  head  and  eyes  cleared,  and 
his  walk  became  steadier,  he  envied  the  open 
laughs  and  hearty  handshakes  about  him.  How 
strong  and  sturdy  the  men  seemed  in  their  huge 
coon  and  bear  skin  coats !  Wistfully,  he 
searched  for  someone  in  the  crowd  to  whom 
he  could  measure  up.  He  had  the  frame — yes, 
he  was  even  taller  than  most  of  them.  He 
caught  a  glimpse  of  his  face  in  the  dirty  mirror 
behind  the  bar  and  turned  disgustedly  from  the 
sickly  white  thing  he  saw.  He  looked  at  his 
feet.  Soft  thin  shoes,  all  right  for  the  Blue 
Bird  Cafe.  A  disgrace  here!  He  tried  to 
hide  them. 

The  mirror,  magnet-like,  again  drew  his 
eyes.  A  dirty  white  collar!  The  only  one  in 
the  room !  A  necktie !  No  wonder  the  bar 
keeper  had  ordered  him  thrown  out.  He 
sulked  to  the  back  of  the  room.  Here  a  lunch 
counter  was  doing  a  rushing  business.  The 
savory  odor  of  frying  meat  and  boiling  coffee 
drew  him  on.  Every  stool  was  occupied.  Steam 
ing  stacks  of  hot-cakes,  ham  and  eggs,  sausage, 


20  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

steaks,  fried  onions  and  potatoes  were  emerging 
from  the  long  low  stove  in  miraculously 
large  quantities.  Thick  bowls  of  steaming 
coffee  were  shoved  across  the  counter  with 
every  order. 

Pete  slid  onto  the  first  vacant  stool. 

"Eggs — soft — toast — coffee,"   he   ordered. 

The  waiter  looked  him  over  and  growled 
insultingly.  "Let's  see  your  money." 

Pete  shrank  back  in  confused  humiliation. 
The  waiter  hadn't  asked  this  of  anyone  else ! 
Peter  Alden,  Jr.,  alone  asked  to  show  his 
money  before  he  could  eat  breakfast  in  the 
back  end  of  a  saloon !  The  thought  maddened 
him.  For  two  weeks  he  had  condemned,  vili 
fied  and  insulted  himself.  Now  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  another  man  dared  do  it!  In 
an  instant  the  Alden  flash  mingled  with  blood- 
shots  in  his  eye.  Something  hot  rushed  up  his 
spine,  swept  his  head  and  flushed  his  face.  The 
waiter  wavered  before  the  menacing  glare. 

"You  damn  hound!  Come  over  here  and 
you'll  be  passin'  out  eggs  in  hell !  Come  out, 
I  say,  before  I  crawl  over  and  drag  you  out!" 

Pete's  knees  sought  the  edge  of  the  counter 
as  his  long  arms  shot  out.  Then  as  his  fingers 
sank  deep  into  bushy  hair,  he  snapped  out  a 
curse,  braced  his  knees,  and  yanked.  With 
frenzied  strength  he  slammed  the  man's  head, 
face  down,  against  the  hard  oak  counter. 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  21 

Three  times  he  smashed  the  face  into  it  before 
two  roustabouts  sprang  upon  him  from  behind 
and  dragged  him  the  full  length  of  the  room 
and  out  into  the  street! 

Badly  shaken  and  dizzy,  still  trembling 
with  rage,  he  scrambled  up.  Drifted  snow  had 
kept  the  door  open  a  few  inches.  Loud  voices 
sounded  within. 

"You  talked  to  a  man  that  time,  Fat." 

"Who  said  that  feller  was  a  stew?" 

"Looks  like  the  goods  to  me,  he  does." 

"Tell  him  to  come  in  and  have  a  drink." 

"Lay  off  'im,  barkeep.  Fat  called  him  first; 
I'm  inviting  him  in." 

The  door  opened  and  a  bronze  faced  fig 
ure  in  heavy  furs  stepped  out  and  spoke  to 
him. 

"Stranger,  I'm  Brud  Hawkins,  sort  of 
native  'round  here.  Come  in  and  be  sociable. 
Fat,  in  here,  got  you  wrong.  Sorry  about  it." 

Pete  liked  the  clean-cut  look  of  the  man. 

"Guess  I'm  a  little  wrong  myself,"  he 
apologized  and  walked  first  through  the  door. 

Hawkins  jerked  a  thumb  at  the  bar. 

"Thanks,"  Pete  hesitated.  "Guess  I'm 
through  drinkin' — like  to  be  sociable,  though." 

"Fair  enough.  A  man  can't  drink  all  the 
time."  Hawkins  observed  the  undeniable  evi 
dence  of  Pete's  all-night  drunk.  "Eat?" 


22  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

Pete  looked  at  the  counter.    A  new  waiter 
was  on  the  job. 

'Thanks." 

Then  he  ordered,  "Eggs,  soft — toast,  cof 
fee." 

*     *     *     * 


CHAPTER  III 

TV/TOAPA  had  long  been  the  peaceful  trading 
*  -*•  center  of  the  Salmon  River  Valley. 
Founded  originally  by  a  horde  of  adventurous 
gold  hunters,  it  still  presented  the  appearance 
of  a  typical  Western  mining  town.  For  years 
past,  however,  the  fertile  valley  in  which  it 
stood  had  gradually  yielded  its  wooded  land 
to  the  aggressive  march  of  logging  camps  and 
sawmills.  Ranchers,  too,  mostly  cattle  and 
sheep  men,  followed  the  lumber  men,  and  not 
a  small  portion  of  the  winter  population  of 
Moapa  was  now  made  up  of  these. 

After  the  early  rush  for  gold  had  come  and 
gone  only  the  activities  of  placer  miners  in 
Salmon  Tooth  Gulch  remained  to  give  to 
Moapa  its  rugged,  picturesque  population. 
Gulch  Creek,  cutting  its  way  through  gorges 
and  valleys,  came  roaring  through  the  very 
center  of  the  Saw  Tooth  Mountains,  carrying 
its  winter  cargo  of  ice  and  snow  through  dan 
gerous  gorge-like  passes  and  finally  out  into 
the  Salmon  River  itself. 

For  years  hundreds  of  hardy  men  with 
sluice-boxes,  pans,  picks  and  shovels  gathered 
in  gold  from  the  rich  gravel  along  this  stream. 
But  of  late  years  the  shallow  surface  work  of 


24  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

these  hand  laborers  became  less  and  less  profit 
able,  and  it  finally  became  apparent  that  the 
old  method  of  gravel  washing  would  have  to 
give  way  to  machinery  and  modern  dredges. 

At  least,  so  said  the  men  behind  the  Sal 
mon  River  Gold  Co.,  Incorporated.  These 
promoters,  foraging  wolves  far  from  the  Wall 
Street  packs,  had  entered  the  peaceful  moun 
tains  of  the  Salmon  Tooth  Gulch  country  with 
flashy  paper,  a  "fool's  gold"  new  to  the  miners, 
and  with  plausible  schemes  and  enticing  prom 
ises.  As  a  result,  first  one  strategic  concession 
and  then  another  was  sewed  up  tight  before 
the  wily  operators  showed  their  hand.  Salmon 
Tooth  Pass,  always  dangerous,  but  the  only 
outlet  to  civilization  the  miners  had,  should  be 
made  safe  and  always  passable,  they  urged. 
This  required  capital.  The  miners  were  scat 
tered  and  divided.  J.  D.  Browning,  king  of 
promoters,  beneficently  undertook  the  task. 
The  pass  was  safe  now,  safely  in  the  clutches 
of  the  Salmon  River  Gold  Company,  Inc. 
Slowly,  but  surely,  the  strong  arm  of  capital, 
directed  by  the  hand  of  the  same  master,  con 
solidated  the  placer  claims  along  the  stream, 
weeding  out  with  ruthless  regularity  as  it  did 
so,  the  hapless  victims  of  its  conquest.  From 
the  first,  resistance  had  been  weak  and  scat 
tered.  Miners  always  had  hard  luck  stones  it 
would  seem,  and  when  they  brought  pleas  for 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  25 

justice  to  Moapa,  they  were  told  to  take  their 
grievances  to  the  proper  authorities.  Yet  at 
the  Government  Land  Offices  new  strange 
faces  greeted  them.  The  city  and  county  of 
fices,  too,  were  filled  with  strangers;  and  all 
of  them  seemed  to  be  interested  only  in  the  wel 
fare  of  the  Gold  Company.  Miners,  real  ones, 
are  prone  to  seek  refuge  in  the  hills,  forgetting 
the  old  diggings  and  hunting  new  ones.  Hope, 
millions  just  ahead,  a  grub  stake  and  a  new 
claim,  satisfy  the  most  of  them. 

So  it  was  with  the  placer  miners  along 
Gulch  Creek,  and  Browning,  immaculate,  suave, 
seldom  allowing  himself  to  become  identified 
in  the  execution  of  his  grasping  schemes,  felt 
that  he  was  approaching  complete  success. 
His  engineers'  reports  indicated  a  near-mon 
opoly  of  mining  ground  along  the  creek,  which 
meant  fabulous  wealth  if  used  as  the  nucleus 
of  a  great  Wall  Street  promotion.  Already  he 
had  prepared  glowing  prospectuses  for  his 
New  York  henchmen,  who  operated  under  the 
name  of  Sharpe  &  Company,  and  these  Wall 
Street  brokers  had,  in  fact,  begun  to  flood  the 
country  with  stock  of  the  Salmon  River  Gold 
Company. 

uTo  hell  with  the  gold,"  was  Sharpe's  mes 
sage  to  Browning.  "If  we  get  it,  so  much  the 
better.  Main  thing,  tie  up  all  Salmon  River 


26  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

claims.  Remember,  we  can  always  mine  the 
public." 

Browning,  "J.  D."  he  was  called,  under 
stood.  Salmon  River  was  his  discovery,  at 
least  from  the  Wall  Street  point  of  view.  "The 
only  gold-producing  placer  section  in  Montana 
that  can  be  monopolized"  was  his  boast,  and 
he  proposed  to  demonstrate  it. 

He  had  no  doubt  he  could,  but  he  winced 
when  he  thought  of  the  prospectuses,  already 
sent  broadcast  throughout  the  country,  an 
nouncing  complete  success.  A  disturbing  pre 
monition  that  he  might  have  rushed  things  too 
rapidly  bothered  him.  An  intangible  uneasi 
ness  made  him  increasingly  nervous  and  irri 
table,  until  at  last,  in  spite  of  heavy  Saturday 
night  snow,  the  first  of  the  coming  winter,  he 
had  scribbled  a  hasty  summons  to  his  engineer, 
and  ordered  Slim  Eliot,  the  'breed,  to  deliver  it 
and  produce  the  engineer  for  a  conference  the 
following  day. 

It  was  late  afternoon  when  J.  D.  bit  into 
his  tenth  cigar  and  ordered  the  meeting  to  busi 
ness.  At  his  right  sat  Peleg  Demons — engi 
neer,  and  directly  before  him,  Ern  Houston — 
lawyer. 

Both  men  shifted  uneasily  before  the  ap 
parent  ill  humor  of  their  chief. 

Browning   lost   no    time    in   preliminaries. 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  27 

Leaning  toward  Demons,  he  asked:  "What's 
left?" 

Demons  squirmed  but  answered  shortly, 
"Most  of  it." 

"Most  of  hell — man — I'm  not  asking  if 
you've  tied  up  all  Montana.  How  many  groups 
are  left  on  the  stream?" 

"One,  but  .  .  .  ."   Demons  began. 

"No  buts;  which  one?  Answer  my  ques 
tion.  How  much  mining  territory  is  left  up 
that  Gulch?" 

"One  group,  the  Dead  Horse,  twenty-five 
claims,  but  it's  not  placer  ground." 

"Well,  that's  one.     How  many  more?" 

"None." 

"Then,  why  the  'but1?" 

"The  Dead  Horse  struck  it  rich,  there's 
gold  there,  solid  veins  of  it.  They've  struck 
the  mother  lode.  The  Dead  Horse  is  worth 
more  than  all  the  placer  ground  we've  got." 

At  this  astounding  news  Browning  tried 
hard  to  appear  unconcerned,  as  he  rolled  his 
cigar  between  his  teeth  and  asked: 

"Do  they  know  it?" 

"No.     Only  three  men  on  the  job  there." 

"Whose  men?" 

"Ours,"  Demons  replied,  and  noted  with 
relief  the  hint  of  a  smile  that  played  on  Brown 
ing's  face  as  he  rose. 

"All  right,  Demons,"  he  added  more  cor- 


28  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

dially.  "Keep  it  up.  Leave  the  signing  to 
Houston  here.  You  better  go  back  now,  and 
cover  up  the  strike.  If  anybody  knows  too 
much "  Browning  shook  his  head  mean 
ingly,  then  added:  "Remember,  nobody  knows 
about  this  strike!  Good-bye." 

The  two  men  waited  until  the  sound  of 
Demons'  clattering  boots  was  well  down  the 
hallway,  then  Browning  turned  to  Houston. 

"Dead  Horse,  Dead  Horse,"  he  repeated 
reflectively,  "that'll  be  Brud  Hawkins,  won't 
it?" 

Houston  nodded  his  reply.  He  seldom 
spoke. 

"Been  working  on  him?" 

The  lawyer  nodded  again. 

"Well?" 

"Can't  budge  him.  Holding  out  on  prin 
ciple." 

"Principles,  hell;  whoever  heard  of  Brud 
Hawkins  having  principles?" 

"He's  got  'em,  J.  D.— he's  got  'em." 

"Try  stock?" 

"Yes." 

"Money?" 

"Yes." 

"Threats?" 

"Yes." 

"Bluff?" 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  29 

Browning  repeated,  this  time  ending  with 
a  long  drawn  out,  "Well?" 

Silent  Ern  never  bluffed  until  he  had  to. 
It  hurt  deep  to  lose,  and  he  was  seldom  hurt. 

Again  Browning  repeated,  "Well?" 

"He  offered  to  buy  us  out,"  Houston  finally 
confessed. 

"What?"  Browning  sprang  to  his  feet, 
"You  don't  mean — he  can't — you  think  Haw 
kins  knows  what  he's  got  up  there?" 

"No,  but  he  thinks  he's  holding  a  trick  at 
that.  And  so  do  I." 

"Come  on,  cut  out  this  infernal  mystery 
stuff,  Ern,  what's  he  got — what's  his  game — 
what  can  he  do  anyway,  damn  mountain  gopher 
— God,  man,  do  you  realize  what  this  means 
to  us?" 

Houston  nodded. 

Browning  sat  down,  puffed  and  thought. 

For  five  silent  minutes  his  cigar  melted  like 
the  sand  in  an  hour-glass,  until  with  character 
istic  decision  he  ended  his  meditation  by  bang 
ing  a  clenched  fist  on  the  table  before  him. 
Then  with  the  precision  of  the  master  executive, 
he  reached  for  the  'phone  and  ordered  a  con 
nection. 

"Salmon  Tooth  Pass,  give  me  Jenkins,"  he 
snapped  into  the  receiver. 

Two  minutes  more  and  the  bell  rang. 

"Hello,     Jenkins?       Browning     speaking. 


30  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

How's  the  pass?  All  right?  Well,  listen  and 
get  this  right.  This  snow's  going  to  wreck  the 
pass  tonight.  Quit  snowing  there,  you  say? 
Fool,  I  said  the  pass  would  be  wrecked  tonight. 
Let  only  J.  D.  men  thru.  Got  it?  All  right, 
good-bye." 

Browning  ordered  another  connection.  The 
bell  rang  sooner  this  time. 

"Hello!  Gold  Nugget  Saloon?  J.  D. 
talking.  Want  to  see  Buller  Garret,  right  away. 
Good-bye." 

As  Browning  hung  up  the  receiver,  he 
turned  to  Houston  with  an  air  of  finality  and 
said:  "Ern,  something  tells  me  this  is  going  to 
be  a  fight.  Hawkins'  assessment  work  isn't 
done,  of  course?" 

Houston  shook  his  head.  "Not  only  done, 
but  the  claim's  patented." 

"Claim's  patented?  How  can  it  be?" 
Browning  groaned  in  utter  exasperation. 
"Didn't  the  land  office  bring  it  to  you  for 
O.  K?" 

"No,  it  slipped  through  somehow.  Don't 
think  there's  been  any  double  crossing,  though, 
just  slipped  through." 

"Now,  that's  that  fool  native  son  of  an  as 
sistant  down  there  that  you  sent  in  for  policy's 
sake!"  Browning  stormed.  "Get  him  out  of 
there,  Ern,  get  him  out  of  there !  Damn  your 
fool  policy  stuff!"  Footsteps  sounded  in  the 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  31 

hallway,  and  Browning  lowered  his  voice. 
"Here  comes  Garret.  Better  leave  me  alone 
with  him,  Ern.  I've  got  some  orders  for  Bull 
that  might  start  you  on  your  policy  work 
again."  Houston  bit  his  lip.  He  had  wit 
nessed  many  a  withering  assault  of  sarcasm 
descend  on  others,  but  never  before  had  he  felt 
its  sting.  Browning  caught  the  feeling  in  an 
instant,  and  changed  the  tone  of  his  voice  as 
he  continued : 

"Forget  it,  Ern,  I'm  all  upset.  I  didn't 
mean  it.  You've  been  with  me  five  years  now. 
First  time  you  ever  thought  the  other  fellow 
had  a  chance.  No  wonder  I'm  upset." 

Browning,  the  actor,  paused  a  moment  to 
pat  silent  Ern  Houston  on  the  shoulder.  That 
moment  was  enough. 

From  the  changed  expression  one  would 
have  thought  Houston  would  change  places 
with  Bull,  the  gangster,  rather  than  incur  the 
lasting  enmity  of  his  chief.  He  smiled  affec 
tionately  and  left. 

For  the  first  time  Garret  entered  the  room 
without  knocking.  With  narrowed  eyes  Brown 
ing  appraised  him  as  he  came  jauntily  up  to 
the  desk  and  helped  himself  to  a  chair  beside 
it.  Buller's  greeting  was  loud  and  cheerful. 
Browning  ignored  it. 

"Been  gambling?"  Browning's  words 
sounded  more  like  a  conclusion  than  a  question. 


32  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

"No." 

"Where  did  you  get  it?" 

"Get  what?" 

"Money — cash— the  'stake'." 

"I  ain't  gotta  stake,  whaddaya  mean — 
money?" 

"Oh,  yes,  you  have.  Bums  like  you  don't 
get  so  cocky  when  they're  broke.  Come  on, 
out  with  it,  what  have  you  been  doing?" 

Bull  fumbled  at  his  fur  hat  and  looked  at 
the  carpet.  "Honest, — I  haven't — " 

"Come  on,  hurry  up,  I  want  to  talk  to  you. 
Didn't  you  promise  you  wouldn't  lie  to  me 
any  more?  Talk  fast  now  and  get  it  out." 
Browning  whirled  in  his  chair  and  began  writ 
ing. 

Buller  hesitated.  How  did  J.  D.  know? 
He  must  have  eyes  everywhere. 

"Well,"  he  commenced,  fearing  he  had 
already  lost  his  chance  to  talk  to  the  great 
J.  D.  "Well,  there  was  a  bloke  came  into  the 
Gold  Nugget,  just  a  washed  out  bum,  I  thought, 
but  he  got  drunk  and  raved  about  his  dad's 
banks,  and  he  slipped  me  a  coupla  checks,  that's 
all." 

"That's  something  like  it;  where  are  they?" 

Bull  fumbled  in  his  inside  pocket  and  pro 
duced  two  long  pink  slips  of  paper. 

"What  were  you  going  to  do  with  these?" 
Browning  asked  disgustedly. 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  33 

"Cash  'em,  if  I  needed  it  pretty  bad,  I 
guess." 

"Fool,  tear  'em  up.  These  things'll  send 
you  up  higher  than  a  kite.  I  ought  to  have 
you  run  in,  right  now,  for  it.  Didn't  I  tell  you 
to  keep  out  of  this  kind  of  stuff?  One  more 
chance,  Bull,  that's  all  you  get.  Where's  the 
bird  that  signed  them?" 

Bull  was  completely  crestfallen,  as  he  an 
swered,  Dumbly,  "Drunk,  eating  breakfast  with 
Brud  Hawkins,  last  I  saw  him." 

"Wait  a  minute,  don't  tear  'em  up.  Eating 
with  Brud  Hawkins,  was  he?" 

"Sure." 

"Give  me  those  checks,  Bull.  On  second 
thought,  I  want  to  use  them  myself,  to — 
send — you — up  if  necessary!" 

Bull  quavered  and  handed  over  the  checks. 
"Please  Mr.  Browning,  please,  I  didn't  mean 
to  use  'em,  I  didn't — " 

"Shut  up!  Listen.  If  it  wasn't  for  me, 
you'd  be  in  jail  now,  wouldn't  you?" 

Bull's  head  sank,  and  Browning  continued. 

"Well,  I'm  still  keeping  you  out.  Why 
did  you  think  I  sent  for  you  today?"  He 
paused  to  let  the  question  sink  in,  then  went 
on.  "You  say  this  bird  was  eating  with  Brud 
Hawkins?"  another  pause,  and  then,  "Well, 
how  did  I  know  you  pulled  this  trick?"  Brown 
ing's  quick  eye  caught  the  gleam  that  came  into 


34  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

Buller's.  uHuh,  I've  concluded  you're  getting 
stupid." 

A  sudden  thought  struck  Bull :  uYou  mean 
to  say,  you  mean — you  mean  this  Alden  guy's 
workin'  with  Hawkins,  that  Hawkins  is  on  my 
trail  again?" 

"Now  you're  coming  to  life,"  Browning 
eyed  him  significantly. 

"Well,  I'm  damned."  Bull  studied  the 
floor  as  he  replied.  "I  thought  he'd/Iropped 
houndin'  me  long  ago." 

Browning,  seeing  how  quickly  he  had  gained 
his  point,  continued :  "Bull,  I've  given  you  your 
last  chance.  We've  cleaned  your  record  three 
times.  If  Hawkins  digs  up  the  old  stuff  against 
you  again,  I'm  going  to  let  you  go  up,  that's  all. 
Police  court's  open  Monday.  This  is  Sunday. 
It's  you  or  Hawkins.  Moapa  won't  miss 
either  of  you  very  much.  That's  all  I  have 
to  say.  So  get  out  now.  I've  tipped  you  off  on 
what's  coming,  and  that's  all  I  can  do.  /  don't 
want  to  harm  anyone,  but  this  thing's  up  to — 
you — now — tonight !" 

Hat  in  hand,  humiliation  mingled  with 
anger  reflected  in  every  action,  Buller  walked 
slowly  out  of  the  office  and  made  for  his  gang 
headquarters. 

Browning  smiled  as  his  visitor  left  the 
room;  then  settling  down  comfortably  in  his 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  35 

spacious  chair,  he  got  Silent  Ern  on  the  'phone. 
"Hello,  Ern! — has  Hawkins  got  any  heirs? 
— well,  if  he  has  by  any  chance,  get  a  line  on 
them,  they  might  talk  business." 


CHAPTER  IV 

TV/JEN  floundering  in  the  dreary  wilderness 
^  of  self-condemnation  and  fading  hope 
are  as  sorely  in  need  of  rescuing  as  though  lost 
in  the  black  depths  of  trackless  jungles. 

True,  Peter  Alden  was  not  lost,  though 
certainly  he  had  wandered  far  from  the  trail. 
Fortunately  for  him  he  was  still  groping  for 
the  way  out;  traveling  in  circles,  perhaps,  but 
at  least  aware  of  swamps  ahead  and  still  faintly 
hoping,  believing  he  would  somehow  escape, 
and  come  once  more  upon  the  highway  of  life, 
of  life  as  he  dreamed  it  might  be. 

When  Brud  Hawkins  invited  him  to  break 
fast  in  the  rear  end  of  the  Gold  Nugget  Saloon, 
he  thought  he  was  feeding  a  hungry  man,  and 
so  he  was.  But  Pete's  hunger  could  not  be 
satisfied  with  food  alone.  With  a  wistfulness 
pathetic  in  its  frankness  and  simplicity,  he 
looked  deep  into  the  soul  of  the  man  beside  him. 

Twice  he  hung  over  swallows  of  coffee  as 
though  to  break  the  embarrassing  silence  his 
searching  look  had  forced  on  his  companion. 
Hawkins  found  it  difficult  to  talk  to  this  man. 
With  none  of  the  ready  adaptability  of  city 
people  in  him,  he  could  not  instantly  shift  from 
expected  small  talk  with  a  drifting  drunkard 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  37 

to  the  words  so  plainly  expected  by  the  man 
who  looked  at  him. 

"Guess  I  want  to  know  who  you  are,  that 
is,  if  you  like,"  he  announced  at  the  end  of  an 
evident  appraisal. 

"Peter  Alden,  Jr." 

"With  the  Company?" 

"What  Company?"  Pete  seemed  bewil 
dered  at  the  question. 

"Seems  there's  only  one  'The  Company1," 
Hawkins  replied,  with  a  touch  of  bitterness  in 
his  voice — "The  Salmon  River  Gold  Company, 
Incorporated." 

"No."     Peter  shook  his  head  listlessly. 

"Just  as  well.  Know  you  aren't  from  the 
camps  though.  But  then  there's  lots  of  stran 
gers  in  Moapa  these  days.  Run  into  them 
most  everywhere  it  seems." 

Pete  caught  the  air  of  finality  in  the  words 
and  knew  that  the  acquaintance  which  seemed 
to  hold  so  much  in  store  for  him  would  end, 
unless  he  chose  to  talk. 

For  some  reason,  he  seemed  strangely  at 
tracted  to  this  man,  and  for  the  first  time  in 
weeks  he  persuaded  himself  to  talk.  Little  by 
little  he  unburdened  his  troubled  heart,  at 
first  talking  only  in  monosyllables,  with  little 
or  no  feeling.  As  his  story  progressed,  how 
ever,  the  kindly  interest  of  the  elderly  moun- 


38  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

taineer  drew  him  more  and  more  into  his  sub 
ject  and  out  of  himself. 

"I  didn't  seem  to  be  fitted  for  anything," 
he  went  on.  "First,  for  my  father's  sake,  I 
studied  medicine.  Then,  I  couldn't  practice. 
Oh,  I  guess  I  could,  all  right,"  he  added  as 
though  answering  an  expression  on  his  compan 
ion's  face,  "but  I  went  to  too  many  afternoon 
parties  .  .  .  ."  "No,"  again  answering  an  un 
spoken  question — "not  the  pink  tea  kind, — 
worse  than  that,  for  me,  anyhow,  for  all  they 
talked  of  was  New  Thought,  and  the  futility 
of  material  things,  and  so  on.  Anyhow,  I  got 
into  it  enough  to  lose  interest  in  my  profession, 
so  I  quit."  At  this  point  he  hesitated,  his  whis 
key-weakened  mouth  still  registering  near  de 
spondency.  "Of  course,"  he  went  on,  "this  was 
the  least  of  it.  I  tried  banking."  His  head 
bobbed  up  and  down  a  trifle  as  he  mentioned 
this;  he  looked  queerly  at  Hawkins  and  asked: 

"Suppose  you  know  how  awful  capital  is?" 
Then  without  waiting  for  a  reply,  he  continued. 

"Well,  it  isn't;  but  that's  what  some  more 
friends,  social  reformers,  this  time,  told  me, 
and  for  a  year  I  tried  to  study  their  ideas, 
and — well — I  wanted  really  to  do  something  in 
the  world.  Sounds  funny,  doesn't  it?  Well,  I 
quit  banking.  You  see,  Mr.  Hawkins,  I  had 
everything,  yet  I  really  did  want  to  do  some 
thing.  I  thought  after  I  had  tried  most  every- 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  39 

thing  else,  that  maybe,  belonging  to  all  the 
"ism's"  and  the  societies  that  I'd  been  studying 
might  help.  Huh!  Now,  as  I  think  of  it,  I'm 
not  sure  whether  I  know  yet  what  all  they  were, 
but  they  got  me  more  muddled  up  than  ever.  I 
actually  thought  that  the  human  species  was  the 
worst  of  all  animals;  that  the  whole  world  was 
wrong,  I  was  wrong,  nothing  mattered  .  .  .  ." 

Thus  Pete  went  on,  describing  himself  as 
one  of  the  many  men  who  become  entangled  in 
a  maze  of  false  philosophy,  until,  by  sheer 
questioning  of  motives,  analyzing  of  actions, 
they  first  become  egotistical  of  their  own  mental 
ability,  looking  wisely  out  from  their  tower  of 
wisdom  upon  the  foolish  world  that  still  works, 
loves,  eats  and  sleeps.  Of  men,  who,  having 
passed  through  this  stage  of  mental  activity, 
find  nothing  worth  while  in  life,  until  they  end 
in  losing  respect  for  themselves  and  acquire 
nothing  but  a  lazy  contempt  for  others. 

He  told  Hawkins  all,  unburdening  his  heart 
as  though  he  could  not  halt  the  rush  of  words 
that  came  to  him.  He  described  his  affairs 
with  women;  with  one  woman  in  particular, 
one  who,  when  he  told  her  he  thought  he  should 
go  back  to  work,  had  called  him  a  usilly  ass," 
and  ridiculed  the  idea.  He  had  loved  this 
woman,  he  thought. 

At  length  he  ended  his  story,  and  as  he  did 
so,  a  sudden  thought  came  over  him.  This  was 


40  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

the  first  time  he  had  ever  made  a  clean  con 
fession  !  He  had  never  spoken  this  way  even 
to  his  own  father!  Yet  even  as  he  spoke,  he 
knew  somehow  that  he  was  nearing  the  path 
his  soul  longed  to  tread.  Where  it  was  or  how 
his  journey  would  start,  he  knew  not. 

Hawkins  listened  patiently  as  Pete  talked, 
considering  well  every  word,  and  showing 
plainly  by  the  expression  on  his  face  how  well 
he  understood  the  turmoil  that  had  swept  the 
heart  of  the  man  who  spoke. 

As  Pete  concluded  his  story,  Hawkins 
tapped  him  gently  on  the  shoulder.  "My  boy," 
he  said,  uyou  feel  better  now,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,  much  better,  I  don't  know  how  to 
explain  it,  either.  God  knows  I've  done  nothing 
to  justify  it,  but  I  do  feel  better,  Mr.  Hawkins, 
much  better." 

"It's  the  telling  it,  son,  it's  the  telling  it. 
I'm  a  miner,  and  I  don't  know  much  about  all 
the  things  you  mentioned,  but  as  I  see  your 
case,  you've  been  slipping  down  through  soft 
mud  and  slush,  trying  to  hit  hard-pan.  Least 
wise,  that's  how  I  would  call  it,  and  now,  you 
feel  like  you're  on  a  rock  bottom,  isn't  that  it?" 

"Good!"  Pete  smiled  for  the  first  time, 
"that's  good,  and  there's  mud  up  to  here,"  he 
laughed,  running  his  finger  across  his  chin, 
"but  I've  struck  bottom,  that's  it,  I've  struck 
bottom!" 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  41 

"You  see,"  the  old  miner  continued,  "we're 
all  alike  in  the  main,  just  like  the  hills;  some's 
faulted  and  some's  slipped.  Now  take  me. 
I've  mined  hereabouts  for  twenty  odd  years, 
yet  there's  aplenty  in  Moapa  who'd  say  that  I 
haven't  found  my  bearings  yet.  But  /  know 
I  have. 

"Then  there's  that  'thought'  idea,  you 
was  talking  about.  Now  I  believe  in  thinking. 
That  is,  well,  in  using  your  brains.  Take  some 
miners  I  know,  who  spend  most  of  their  time 
figuring  out  the  hows  and  whys  of  their  tools; 
yet  they  never  have  time  to  use  them !  I  hold 
a  man  shouldn't  be  figgerin'  too  much  on  the 
how  of  his  brains  or  his  tools  either,  lest  he 
don't  have  time  to  use  them!  And  he's  liable 
to  get  all  muddled  up  and  useless,  too!" 

Pete  nodded  his  head  in  vigorous  approval, 
quietly  ordering  a  third  cup  of  coffee  for  Haw 
kins,  hoping  it  would  hold  him  longer. 

"But  it's  all  had  its  use,  my  boy,  it's  all  had 
its  use.  Take  me.  I  spent  six  years  chasing 
fool's  gold  before  I  learned  how  to  prospect. 
But  I  had  to  learn,  you  see.  But,  after  all,  it 
ain't  so  much  the  getting  of  the  learnin'  that 
hurts,  it's  lettin'  the  learnin'  get  us  that  puts 
us  under !" 

So  saying,  Hawkins  pushed  his  coffee  from 
him,  cleared  his  throat,  and  in  an  entirely  new 
manner,  continued. 


42  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

"And  now,  young  man,  what  are  you  going 
to  do?" 

"That's  it,"  Pete  replied,  "what  am  I  going 
to  do?  I  believe  I  will  be  happy  to  shovel 
snow,  anything.  I'm  going  to  work,  Mr. 
Hawkins — w-o-r-k. ' ' 

"Good,"  the  old  miner  patted  him  on  the 
shoulder  again.  "Have  you  ever  been  in  the 
hills?" 

"Two  summers  and  one  winter,  but  that 
was  four  years  ago;  roughed  it,  too.  Only 
thing  I've  done  that  still  feels  good." 

"All  right;  now  do  you  want  a  real  man- 
sized  job  in  the  mountains  for  this  winter?" 
As  he  asked  the  question,  Hawkins  brought  his 
teeth  together  and  elevated  his  chin,  trying  as 
best  he  could  to  give  the  impression  that  he  was 
making  strictly  a  business  offer. 

But  Pete  knew  the  open  hearted,  true  blue 
ring  of  altruism  that  prompted  the  offer. 

"Do  I?"  he  answered  enthusiastically,  "I 
believe  I'd  crawl  there  to  get  it." 

"Not  in  those  clothes."  Hawkins'  eyes 
traveled  over  the  erstwhile  regalia  of  a  San 
Francisco  club  man. 

"Oh— I  didn't  think,  hell !  But  I'll  go  any 
way ;  tell  me  how  to  get  there ;  I'll  work  around 
town  till  I  get  the  clothes." 

"No  need  of  that,"  Hawkins  waved  the 
suggestion  aside.  "Let's  talk  business.  I'm 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  43 

needing  a  sort  of  time-keeper  and  runner  up 
at  the  diggin's.  Got  a  crew  coming  up  next 
week." 

"Fine,  I  can  do  it!"  Pete's  eyes  swept  de 
fiantly  around  the  room.  ujust  give  me  a 
chance!" 

UA11  right,  son.  Come  over  and  get  out 
fitted.  Better  get  aplenty,  might  not  be  coming 
back  for  a  coupla  months;  and  remember,  I'm 
not  paying  much.  All  the  mining  boys  in 
Moapa  have  been  calling  me  a  fool  mountain 
gopher  for  years,  because  I  stick  to  the  Dead 
Horse  Mine.  Yes,  that's  where  we're  going, 
to  the  Dead  Horse.  They  all  think  there's 
nothing  there,  but  I'll  show  them."  Then  he 
clenched  his  fists,  bent  close  to  Pete's  ear  and 
whispered:  "Don't  talk  any  about  it,  but 
they're  the  fools,  every  mother's  son  of  'em, 
for  trading  their  placer  claims  for  Gold  Com 
pany  stock.  They  don't  think  so.  But  old 
Gopher  Hawkins  will  be  saving  them  from 
ruin  yet.  I'm  holding  a  trick  or  two.  There's 
two  or  three  Company  men  that  ought  to  be  in 
jail,  but  it's  too  early  yet.  I'm  going  to  prove 
that  there's  gold  in  the  Dead  Horse  first,  then 
they  will  believe  me!"  Before  he  had  finished 
speaking,  the  two  had  passed  quietly  out  of 
the  door. 

As  Pete  greeted  the  cold  street  wind  he  was 
conscious  of  a  new  feeling  in  his  heart;  his 


44  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

head  seemed  to  seek  a  higher  level  than  was 
its  habit  of  late.  Even  his  eyes  brightened 
with  the  spark  of  new  ambition;  a  spark  that 
might  have  been  a  fire  but  for  the  blear  of 
whiskey. 

At  the  Moapa  Trading  Company,  Haw 
kins  sought  out  Burton  Smead,  manager. 

"Fix  this  young  man  up  for  the  camp, 
Smead,  build  him  up  from  his  hide  out,  gun 
an'  all.  Alden,  did  you  say  your  name  was?" 
Turning  to  Pete. 

"Pete,  just  call  me  Pete,  please." 

"Well,  Pete,  meet  me  at  the  Gold  Nugget 
at  noon,  we  start  for  the  pass  at  one." 


CHAPTER  V 

A  GAIN  Pete's  eyes  sought  the  mirror  be- 
**-  hind  the  Gold  Nugget  Bar.  For  the 
first  time  in  months  he  felt  a  tinge  of  genuine 
pride  as  he  appraised  his  snug  coonskin  cap,  his 
burly  fur  coat  and  heavy  corduroy  breeches, 
tucked  deep  into  high  leather  boots. 

It  lacked  yet  a  half  hour  of  being  noon, 
but  he  paced  the  length  and  breadth  of  the 
room,  impatiently  awaiting  the  coming  of  Haw 
kins.  He  had  waited  fully  twenty  minutes  of 
the  time,  when  the  door  opened  and  a  man, 
made  conspicuous  by  a  shiny  badge  on  his 
breast  and  a  gun  that  dangled  at  his  side, 
entered.  Speaking  a  few  words  to  the  bar 
tender,  the  stranger  produced  a  small  roll  of 
hand  bills,  tacked  one  of  them  on  the  wall,  and 
walked  quietly  out  of  the  room.  Nothing  else 
to  do,  Pete  joined  the  curious  throng  to  read. 

One  glance  at  the  poster  and  Pete  stared 
in  wide-eyed  horror,  as  though  transfixed!  His 
picture  there  before  him!  He,  wanted  for 
burglary.  A  $5000.00  reward  posted  for  him, 
a  runaway  Pacific  Central  cashier!  The  wall 
danced  dizzily  before  his  eyes.  His  stomach 
contracted,  and  his  heart  leaped  up  into  his 


46  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

chest.  His  knees  shook  as  though  they  would 
fall  from  under  him ! 

He,  Peter  Alden,  Jr.,  a  fugitive  from 
justice!  "Great  God!"  he  muttered,  "what 
next?"  He  feared  to  turn,  lest  the  men  on  either 
side  might  recognize  him.  The  thought  made 
his  hair  bristle  with  fear.  The  whole  thing  was 
wrong,  horribly  wrong.  He  tried  to  think 
back.  Fifty  thousand  dollars  taken  from  his 
safe  !  He  hadn't  been  near  the  safe  the  day  he 
left,  and  the  money  was  there  when  he  closed 
it  the  day  before  !  Thoughts — forebodings, 
plans,  helplessness  raced  through  his  brain  in 
the  first  panic  of  the  moment.  He  noticed  with 
some  relief  that  the  men  beside  him  didn't  seem 
interested,  that  they  actually  walked  away.  Out 
of  the  corner  of  his  eye  he  observed  a  strange 
bar-tender  at  work.  More  boldly  he  viewed 
the  lunch  counter.  His  enemy  of  the  morning, 
nose  red  and  swollen,  eyes  discolored,  was 
there,  but  the  noon  rush  kept  him  busy. 

Hoping  to  gain  the  street  unobserved,  Pete 
started,  as  naturally  as  possible,  for  the  door. 
Before  he  could  reach  it,  however,  Brud 
Hawkins  pushed  it  open,  and  called  cheerily : 

"Ready,  Alden?  Let's  go."  At  the  sound 
of  his  name  Pete  imagined  he  felt  the  concen 
trated  stare  of  a  half  dozen  pairs  of  eyes  on  his 
back.  He  hurried  through  the  door,  and  faced 
the  mountaineer. 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  47 

"I  wouldn't  have  known  you,  boy.  I 
wouldn't  have  known  you!"  Hawkins  ex 
claimed,  his  admiring  eyes  moving  slowly  from 
Pete's  feet  toward  his  head,  when  they  met  his 
eyes,  lingered  a  moment,  then  widened  in  as 
tonishment. 

"My  God,  man,  what's  wrong?"  Pete  met 
the  alarmed  look  of  the  miner  with  a  straight 
though  badly  startled  stare.  He  moistened  his 
lips  and  jerked  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder. 

"Inside,  on  wall,  look." 

Puzzled  at  the  strange  manner  of  his  newly 
made  acquaintance,  Hawkins  frowned  slightly 
and  walked  through  the  door. 

Feeling    miserable    beyond    words,     Pete 
braced  himself  against  the  corner  of  the  build 
ing,  determined  to  take  the  new  blow,  if  it  came, 
as  just  so  much  more  justly  deserved  punish 
ment,  and  let  matters  run  their  course. 

A  moment  inside  and  Hawkins  came  out. 
Looking  earnestly  at  Pete,  he  asked,  "Well 
boy,  did  you  do  it?" 

Pete  looked  straight  at  him  and  answered, 
"No." 

"Then  buck  up,  son,  buck  up.  You  look 
like  you  might  have  murdered  somebody  in  the 
bargain.  Come  on,  we're  late,  let's  go." 

Yet  even  as  Hawkins  said  it,  Pete's  heart 
welled  with  gratitude  at  the  simple  straight 
forwardness  of  the  man.  He  had  known  men 


48  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

for  years,  but  could  count  on  the  fingers  of  one 
hand  those  who  would  so  quickly  and  whole 
heartedly  dismiss  so  serious  a  matter,  and  ac 
cept  their  own  judgment  of  him  as  final. 

Hawkins,  though,  was  doing  far  more  than 
this.  He  was  still  inviting  Pete  to  accompany 
him  to  the  mountains;  and  Pete,  unaccustomed 
though  he  was  to  the  open  life  of  his  new  sur 
roundings,  quickly  caught  the  unusual  spirit  of 
comradeship  that  prompted  Hawkins'  words. 
Yet  he  hesitated  long  before  he  answered. 

"No,  I  don't  see  how  I  can,"  he  finally 
stammered.  "I  don't  care  for  myself, — but 
father,  poor,  dear  old  dad,  it'll  kill  him,  I'm 
sure  it  will  kill  him.  I  never  dreamed  of  that," 
waving  a  hand  at  the  saloon,  "when  I  left,  I 
never  dreamed  of  it." 

uFigurin'  you  were  back,  could  you  prove 
you  didn't  do  it?"  Hawkins  asked,  as  he 
grasped  Pete  by  the  arm  as  though  to  steady 
him. 

"No,"  Pete's  words  grew  bitter,  "I  sneaked 
away  like  a  thief,  I  tell  you,  like  a  cur  dog." 

"Then  it'll  only  add  more  trouble  on  your 
father  if  you're  brought  back.  Better  tell  him 
you  didn't  do  it,  and  come  with  me.  He'll  be 
lieve  you.  Anybody  would.  You're  not  a  liar. 
Let  things  work  themselves  out.  They  most 
always  do,  you  know." 

Pete  hesitated,  lingering  so  long  in  front  of 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  49 

the  saloon,  that  Hawkins  was  at  length  forced 
to  remind  him  of  the  danger  of  recognition,  a 
circumstance  which  would  take  from  him  any 
chance  he  might  now  have  of  shaping  his  own 
course  of  action.  Still  uncertain  and  sick  at 
heart,  Pete  yielded  to  the  urging  of  his  friend, 
and  the  two  moved  on  toward  the  Moapa  Trad 
ing  Co.,  at  which  place  Hawkins  assured  Pete 
he  could  write  a  letter,  with  nothing  to  fear 
from  the  manager,  Smead,  who  would  keep  his 
own  council  regarding  Pete's  name. 

True  to  his  prediction,  Smead  took  the 
news  solemnly,  and  assured  both  Hawkins  and 
Pete  that  he  would  keep  his  knowledge  to  him 
self. 

It  was  well  after  the  hour  appointed  by 
Hawkins  to  begin  the  journey,  when  Pete  finally 
emerged  with  a  bulging  envelope,  addressed 
and  stamped. 

''Better  not  take  it  to  the  Post  Office," 
Hawkins  advised.  "There's  sure  to  be  more  of 
those  tarnashioned  posters  there.  Here's  a 
boy.  Maybe  he  will  take  it  to  the  depot  and 
put  it  right  on  the  train,  or  do  you  think  he'll 
recognize  the  name?" 

"No.  It's  addressed  to  someone  else,  to 
Judge  Stivers.  The  boy  will  do  all  right;  here, 
you  give  it  to  him." 

A  moment  more,  and  Pete  stood  watching 
the  willing  messenger  go  whistling  merrily 


50  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

down  the  long  street  toward  the  depot. 

"Isn't  it  wonderful,  to  whistle  like  that," 
he  mused  half  aloud  to  Hawkins,  but  more  to 
himself.  "If  I  could 

He  chopped  his  sentence  short  and  grasped 
Hawkins  by  the  arm.  "Look;  those  two  men; 
they  came  out  of  the  alley;  they're  walking  to 
the  depot  with  him." 

Hawkins'  eyes  followed  the  trio  now  dis 
appearing  down  the  street  as  he  remarked : 

"I  can't  be  sure,  but  one  of  'em  looks  like 
Bull  Garret,  but  he's  probably  just  snooping 
around.  He  won't  recognize  the  name  on  the 
letter.  Let's  go." 

Pete  would  have  given  much  to  have  seen 
the  letter  posted,  but  already  he  had  imposed 
far  too  much  of  his  own  troubles  on  his  waiting 
companion,  and  so  he  said  nothing,  but  moved 
off  in  the  direction  of  the  towering  mountains 
of  the  Saw  Tooth  Range,  walking  close  at  the 
side  of  his  companion. 

Yet,  as  he  walked,  he  could  not  forget  the 
letter. 

"You  noticed  I  addressed  it  to  Judge 
Stivers,"  he  explained.  "If  there's  a  man  on 
earth  who  can  solve  the  mystery  of  that  rob 
bery,  he  can.  I've  called  him  Uncle  John  now 
for  years.  Poor  old  Uncle  John !  He's  wor 
ried  as  much  about  me,  I  think,  as  father  has." 

"Come,  now — you  ought  to  quit  worryin', 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  51 

Pete,  just  forget  it;  it's  sure  to  come  out  all 
right  in  the  clean  up,"  Hawkins  replied,  a  trifle 
bored. 

Pete  sighed  heavily,  and  made  a  desperate 
effort  to  get  his  train  of  thoughts  into  a  channel 
that  might  prove  more  interesting  to  his  com 
panion. 

"There  doesn't  seem  to  be  anyone  living 
between  here  and  the  mountains  at  all,"  he 
commented,  as  he  noticed  the  barren  waste  of 
snow  that  stretched  in  an  almost  unbroken  ex 
panse  before  him. 

"No,"  Hawkins  replied,  "when  the  snow 
melts  in  the  spring,  you  will  see  the  reason. 
The  old  Salmon  River,  'way  up  by  the  moun 
tains  now,  must  have  been  all  over  here  once, 
for  there's  nothing  but  waste  sand  under  this 
snow.  A  regular  desert  in  the  summer  time." 

"Someone  seems  to  have  gone  just  ahead 
of  us,  though;  see  the  tracks  in  the  snow?" 

"Yes,"  Hawkins  replied,  "probably  some 
of  Jenkins'  crew  at  the  pass.  That's  where  I 
always  have  trouble.  You  see  the  Salmon 
River  Gold  Company  grabbed  that  pass  where 
the  Gulch  Creek  empties  into  the  Salmon  River, 
and  they  could  pretty  near  do  as  they  pleased 
about  letting  people  through  before  they  took 
over  the  claims  themselves.  I'm  about  the  only 
one  that  has  an  interest  up  the  gulch,  outside 
of  themselves  now." 


52  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

For  nearly  half  an  hour  the  two  walked  on 
in  silence,  Pete  finding  the  tramp  through  the 
snow  exceedingly  tiresome,  and  especially  so 
because  of  the  weight  of  the  pack  he  carried  on 
his  back.  As  his  own  fatigue  increased  he 
marveled  at  the  strength  and  endurance  of  his 
companion,  who  never  once  appeared  to  be  in 
terested  in  resting. 

"Whew!"  Pete  finally  protested,  "let's 
rest;  I'm  soft,  lots  softer  than  I  thought  I  was." 

"Ha,  ha,"  the  old  mountaineer  laughed, 
"I've  been  waiting  for  you  to  say  that,  but  if 
you  had  held  out  much  longer,  I  would  have 
hollered  first.  All  right,"  he  continued,  as  he 
threw  his  pack  on  the  snow,  "let's  sit  on  our 
packs  here,  awhile,  while  I  tell  you  how  this 
hole-in-the-ground  of  mine  got  its  name." 

With  a  sigh  of  relief,  Pete  followed  the 
miner's  example  and  lowered  his  pack  to  the 
snow. 

"You  mean  the  Dead  Horse?"  he  queried 
after  the  first  few  minutes'  rest.  "I've  been 
wondering  about  that." 

"Well,"  Hawkins  chuckled,  "most  of  'em 
about  here  have  forgotten  it.  You  see,  I  came 
into  these  hills  twenty  odd  years  ago,  as  I've 
told  you.  I  was  a  Jim-dandy  remittance  man 
then,  and  wanted  to  find  a  gold  mine,  so  I  could 
get  back  to  Australia  'on  my  own'  as  we  used 
to  say.  I  hired  a  couple  of  guides,  good  fellows 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  53 

right  enough,  but  they  had  no  end  of  fun  with 
me.  Whenever  they  wanted  to  rest  and  lay 
around  camp,  they'd  send  me  out  over  a  lot  of 
barren  ground,  picking  up  rock  and  digging 
for  gold.  One  day,  we'd  just  gone  up  the  gulch 
yonder,  and  we  were  all  fagged  out.  It  seems 
they  had  been  there  before,  and  had  lost  a  pack 
animal,  broke  its  leg  or  something,  and  they 
had  buried  it  right  where  it  fell.  Thinking  they 
had  a  good  joke,  they  fixed  it  up  between  them 
to  set  me  digging  into  that  dead  horse's  grave. 
Well,  I  missed  the  grave,  and  dug  into  what  I 
thought  was  an  indication  of  ore.  Well,  to 
make  a  long  story  short,  I  named  her  the  Dead 
Horse  Mine,  right  then  and  there.  I  quit  be 
ing  a  remittance  man  long  ago,  but  off  and  on, 
I've  earned  enough  money  to  keep  after  that 
ore  in  the  old  mine  for  more  than  twenty  years. 
This  winter  I  think  I'll  get  ore.  I've  been  think 
ing  this  way  for  the  last  few  years,  though — 
can't  be  certain,  of  course." 

For  nearly  half  an  hour  Hawkins  told  Pete 
of  the  Dead  Horse  Mine,  becoming  so  inter 
ested  in  his  subject  that  Pete  was  actually  suf 
fering  from  the  cold. 

As  Hawkins  brought  his  story  to  an  end, 
Pete  made  to  start,  when  Hawkins  restrained 
him. 

"We  never  can  make  camp  out  here,"  he 
said,  indicating  the  white  waste  about  him. 


54  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

"I'm  getting  powerful  hungry.  Think  we  had 
better  take  a  chance,  and  go  by  way  of  the  old 
cabins.  No  one  uses  the  trail  any  more,  but 
it's  much  quicker." 

So  saying  they  turned  oft  to  the  left,  and 
continued  in  silence. 

"Hello,"  Hawkins  suddenly  ejaculated, 
"seems  that  our  friends  ahead  decided  to  cut 
over  and  take  this  trail,  too.  See,  there's  their 
tracks  again." 

Seeing  nothing  unusual  in  the  matter,  Pete 
made  no  comment,  but  trudged  silently  on. 

An  hour  later  the  cabins  Hawkins  referred 
to  loomed  into  sight. 

"Old  company  houses,"  Hawkins  ex 
plained.  "Crew  that  cut  Salmon  Tooth  Pass 
road  lived  in  'em.  Empty  now.  We'll  stop  and 
make  camp  there." 

Pete  was  becoming  painfully  aware  of  the 
absence  of  anything  to  eat  since  breakfast.  En 
couraged  now  by  the  promise  of  food  and  rest 
he  redoubled  his  efforts  to  keep  pace  with  the 
sturdy  miner. 

They  had  come  within  fifty  yards  of  the 
nearest  hut  when  Hawkins  hesitated  and  low 
ered  his  pack.  Pete,  still  under  headway  of  his 
new  effort  to  keep  up,  bumped  full  into  him 
before  he  could  stop. 

"Don't  look,  somebody's  coverin'  us  with 
a  gun  from  that  house!"  Hawkins  whispered 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  55 

hoarsely  as  he  feigned  adjustment  of  straps. 
"Saw  the  door  open  a  little.  Quick,  get  your 
pack  down  in  front  of  you!"  Pete  was  quick, 
but  his  purpose  was  too  evident;  as  he  flattened 
out  in  the  snow  the  door  of  the  house  burst 
wide  open,  and  three  shots  rang  out  to 
gether.  Hawkins  slumped  heavily,  hot  blood 
spurting  from  his  left  breast  into  the  soft  snow. 
Pete  was  stunned  with  the  suddenness  of  the 
thing,  and  fairly  crushed  with  horror  at  what 
he  saw  as  he  prostrated  himself  beside  his  fal 
len  comrade. 

"I'm — I'm  hit — boy — guess  they  got  me — 
no — use — you — to.  Better  signal  —  quits." 
Hawkins  gasped. 

Once  the  full  significance  of  the  thing  came 
to  him,  Pete  felt  himself  torn  between  a  mad 
impulse  to  charge  the  murder  house  and  a  more 
sensible  desire  to  save  the  life  of  his  friend.  A 
glance  at  the  wound  and  he  knew  life  or  death 
hung  in  the  balance,  and  that  time  was  every 
thing.  Frantically  he  sprang  to  his  feet  and 
raised  both  arms  in  the  air  as  evidence  of  sur 
render. 

A  loud  voice  sounded  from  the  open  door 
way.  "All  right,  we'll  come  and  get  ya;  hoist 
'em  high,  no  dirty  work.  We  got  ya  covered." 

"Keep  standing!"  the  voice  ordered. 
"Where's  Hawkins?  Get  up,  Hawkins,  or 
we'll  shoot  yer  burglar  friend." 


56  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

"He's  done  for,  you  dirty  assassins.  He's 
nearly  dead.  Shoot  me,  if  you  like,  but  do 
something  for  this  man,  quick!"  Pete  half 
shouted  and  half  pleaded  the  words. 

Apparently  satisfied,  two  men  with  rifles 
in  arms  came  forward,  followed  closely  by  two 
others. 

"Damn  fools  to  put  up  a  fight,"  the  man 
in  front  grunted  as  he  indicated  the  packs,  and 
Hawkins'  gun,  still  clenched  in  the  miner's 
hand.  Pete  scrutinized  the  four  sharply.  He 
knew  the  types,  for  he  had  seen  gunmen,  thugs 
and  gangsters  aplenty  in  San  Francisco.  Only 
the  clothes,  he  observed,  gave  them  a  different 
outward  appearance  from  the  men  who  now 
confronted  him. 

"Quick,  this  man's  dying.  For  God's  sake, 
get  him  into  the  house!"  he  pleaded,  lowering 
his  arms  and  bending  over  the  prostrate  figure 
in  the  snow. 

The  leader,  with  sly,  rat-like  expression, 
kicked  Pete's  pack  viciously.  "Hell,"  he  mut 
tered,  "bet  he  ain't  got  a  drop  to  drink  in 
there."  Then  turning  to  Pete,  he  thrust  his 
gun  menacingly  at  him  and  continued:  "Don't 
get  in  a  hurry,  you.  We  know  what  we're  do 
ing,  all  right.  You're  worth  about  five  thou 
sand  bucks  on  the  hoof  and  this  bird's  worth 
about  that  much  dead.  And  when  it  comes  to 
that  part  of  it — you  killed  him — see?" 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  57 

Seconds  spent  in  talk  seemed  like  hours  to 
Pete.  Helplessly  he  witnessed  Hawkins'  life 
blood  ooze !  A  curse  was  surely  on  his  head, 
bitterness  gripped  his  soul !  The  gunmen  be 
side  him  seemed  to  lose  their  identity;  like  evil 
genii  they  looked,  and  an  insane  impulse  to 
spring  upon  them  swept  over  him! 

But  the  very  insanity  of  the  impulse  brought 
cunning  with  it,  as  Pete  turned  to  the  gunmen 
and  spoke  quickly. 

"Rats,"  he  began,  "know  what  you've 
done?  You've  nearly  killed  the  man  that 
cached  the  fifty  thousand  dollars  I  stole! 
Here's  the  only  living  man  that  knows  where 
it  is!"  Pete  pointed  at  the  prostrate  form  on 
the  snow  and  went  on.  "Let  me  dress  his 
wounds.  I'll  get  the  pot,  and  split  it  with  you. 
Quick,  he's  going  fast." 

Alguin,  he  of  the  rat  face,  "Al,"  the  gang 
sters  called  him,  stepped  close  to  Pete.  "If 
yer  lying,"  he  smirked,  "we'll  frame  ya 
sure  for  murdering  this  man,  and  fixin'  the  hole 
in  him  won't  make  him  live  either.  If  yer 
talkin'  straight  the  deal  sounds  fair  enough. 
Bring  the  Gopher  in,  fellows,  no  hurry  anyhow, 
Bull  can't  get  here  for  hours  yet." 

"Hurry  then,  for  God's  sake,  hurry!"  Pete 
shouted,  as  he  grabbed  his  pack  and  rushed 
wildly  for  the  cabin. 

"Bed — quick,"  he   ordered  on  gaining  an 


58  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

entrance.  Frantically  he  tore  open  his  pack 
and  snatched  the  small  medicine  kit  that  Smead 
had  included  in  his  list  of  supplies.  Then  he 
made  for  the  bed  upon  which  Hawkins  was 
laid  by  the  four  men  who  carried  him  in. 

'  Only  the  sub-conscious  mind  of  the  one-time 
medical  student  seemed  functioning  as  Pete 
hung  over  the  prostrate  body  of  his  friend  and 
probed  deep  into  the  left  lung  for  the  assassin's 
bullet. 

Even  the  huddled  group  of  gangsters,  some 
nervous  and  restless  in  the  presence  of  their 
crime,  marveled  at  the  phenomenal  skill  with 
which  he  worked. 

Alguin  alone,  as  he  played  an  electric  flash 
at  Pete's  command,  seemed  interested,  for  mer 
cenary  reasons  only. 

At  the  end  of  an  hour  Pete  straightened 
and  breathed  heavily. 

"Can't  see  what  you  frisk  safes  for,  when 
you  can  do  that."  Alguin  spoke  for  the  first 
time. 

If  Pete  heard  him,  he  made  no  sign,  as 
tenderly  he  looked  again  under  the  eyelids 
of  the  helpless  Hawkins.  "I've  done  all  a 
human  can,"  he  muttered.  "God  only  can  do 
the  rest,  and  God  doesn't  seem  to  be  working." 
Then  he  sank  to  his  knees  beside  the  bed. 

How  long  he  lay  there  he  did  not  know,  but 
when  he  again  opened  his  eyes,  kerosene  lights 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  59 

were  burning  in  another  room,  and  a  fire  was 
crackling  somewhere  in  an  open  hearth.  He 
was  not  in  a  one-room  shack,  he  noticed,  but 
rather  in  one  room  of  a  combination  of  three 
or  four.  Pete,  however,  paid  little  attention 
to  the  room,  as  he  hung  breathlessly  over  the 
form  of  his  patient,  observing  his  breathing 
and  pulse  beats.  At  length,  convinced  that  he 
had  done  all  that  lay  within  his  power  for  the 
wounded  man,  he  slumped  again  to  his  knees 
by  the  bed. 

Presently  he  heard  someone  brush  through 
the  door,  and  approach  the  bedside,  but  he  did 
not  look  up  as  his  throbbing  head  had  again 
sought  refuge  between  his  folded  arms.  A 
strange  voice  roused  him. 

"I've  brought  you  some  supper,  Mr.  Alden, 
and  some  clean  bandages  and  water.  You  are 
a  splendid  surgeon." 

Pete  rubbed  his  eyes  in  astonishment.  A 
woman  or  a  girl,  he  could  not  be  sure  in  the 
dim  light,  stood  beside  him. 

"Am  I  crazy,  or  am  I  sight-seeing  again  on 
the  Barbary  Coast?"  he  rasped  through  his 
teeth.  What  effect  the  bitter  insinuation  had, 
he  could  not  see,  and  would  not  if  he  could. 
He  was  in  a  gangster's  den,  and  only  one  kind 
of  a  woman  could  be  there.  He  waited  a  mo 
ment  for  his  answer,  but  the  woman  had  left, 
leaving  a  small  tray  of  food,  a  pitcher  of  hot 


60  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

water  and  a  small  roll  of  clean  white  strips  on 
an  empty  soap  box  by  the  bedside. 

The  sight  of  the  bandages  caused  the  opera 
tion  of  a  few  hours  before  to  flash  back 
through  Pete's  mind.  There  had  been  a  nurse 
there,  it  seemed,  someone  who  knew  just  what 
he  wanted.  He  remembered  her  faintly.  He 
could  not  be  sure;  his  brain  could  not  be 
trusted.  First  stupefied  with  whiskey,  eating 
only  once  in  twenty-four  hours,  witnessing  him 
self  placarded  as  a  thief;  invited  to  freedom 
by  a  man  of  his  own  heart,  only,  so  it  seemed, 
to  be  the  cause  of  that  same  friend's  now  lying 
at  the  point  of  death,  was  far  too  much  for 
one  human  being  to  endure.  It  was  little 
wonder  he  could  not  trust  his  brain.  Aside 
from  his  mental  collapse,  he  was  completely 
exhausted  by  his  hard  tramp  through  the  snow, 
and  the  strenuous  super-human  effort  necessary 
to  steel  his  nerves  for  the  operation.  He  gave 
up  entirely  now  and  slumped  heavily  forward, 
letting  his  delirious  head  nestle  softly  against 
the  prostrate  body  of  Hawkins. 

But  torture  followed  him,  even  to  this  piti 
fully  fitful  sleep.  He  was  caught  fast  in  the 
bogs  of  a  swamp  it  seemed  to  his  fevered 
brain.  Vainly  he  sought  to  rise,  but  human 
monsters,  dancing  devils  with  long  red  knives, 
thrust  him  back.  He  called  for  help  but  no 
one  came,  until  at  length  his  father  drifted  in 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  61 

on  the  scene.  Pleadingly  Peter  held  up  his 
hands,  and  his  father  bent  over  to  grasp  them. 
Yet  even  before  their  hands  met,  a  dwarf  stole 
up  and  whispered  in  his  father's  ear:  uHe 
isn't  your  son,  he's  a  thief,  a  common  thief, 
don't  touch  him!" 

Then  many  little  dwarfs  tugged  and  pulled 
until  his  father  went  away.  Peter,  heart  bro 
ken,  begged  the  devils  to  kill  him,  and  he  waited 
for  the  blow.  But  no,  even  as  he  begged  to 
die,  a  strong  man  came  up  and  brushed  his 
tormentors  aside  and  with  one  pull  had  him 
half  out  of  the  mire.  Then  the  biggest  dwarf 
of  all  let  fly  a  huge  spear  straight  at  him.  His 
rescuer  stood  in  the  way  and  was  struck.  Pete 
felt  the  hands  that  held  his  grow  cold  and  weak. 
In  agony  he  tried  to  help,  to  do  something,  but 
his  feet  were  still  in  the  bog,  and  he  could  do 
nothing,  until  finally  an  angel  floated  down  and 
poured  something  into  the  dying  man's  mouth, 
and  as  she  did  so,  the  man  grew  instantly 
stronger,  his  fingers  closing  once  more  on  Pete's 
trembling  hands.  Pete  looked  up  in  gratitude, 
and  the  angel  smiled  at  him!  Pete,  with  new 
hope  in  his  heart,  moved  his  knees  and  found 
he  could  help  himself  a  little  when  the  angel 
smiled.  She  seemed  to  bathe  his  burning  head 
with  cold  water  and  even  kissed  his  parched 
lips  as  she  smiled.  Even  as  she  did  so,  the 
dying  man  looked  on,  smiled  faintly  and  said 


62  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

he  could  live.  With  a  sigh,  Pete  rested  his 
head  on  soft  green  grass  that  somehow  took  the 
place  of  the  swamp.  He  stretched  his  aching 
limbs  luxuriously  and  slept,  the  sweet  sleep  of 
a  man  kissed  in  his  dreams  by  a  beautiful 
woman. 

*     *     *     * 

Sunshine,  flooding  full  in  his  face,  greeted 
Pete  as  he  reluctantly  opened  his  eyes  for  a 
moment  to  stare  vacantly  about.  Almost  at 
once  his  eyes  rested  on  the  drawn  form  of 
Hawkins,  and  the  scene  of  the  night  before 
with  all  of  its  horror,  came  back  to  him.  He 
had  slept  long  and  forsaken  his  wounded 
friend  1  With  a  startled  cry  he  sprang  up  from 
a  mattress  on  the  floor  and  made  for  the 
wounded  man's  bedside !  As  he  did  so  a  form 
bending  over  the  sick  bed  turned  and  faced 
him.  Steel-blue  eyes  that  wanted  to  be  merry, 
but  obviously  under  stern  restraint,  met  his, 
and  he  stopped  as  though  facing  an  apparition. 
Was  he  still  dreaming?  Cold  words  shattered 
his  doubts.  "I  see  you  are  up,  Mr.  Alden.  Your 
patient  passed  the  crisis  at  midnight.  I  will 
leave  now."  The  girl,  so  vividly  young,  yet 
drawn  with  care,  turned  to  go. 

Peter  wheeled  confusedly  from  a  mad  rush 
to  the  sick  bed,  to  detain  the  fair  apparition  a 
moment  longer.  "Wait,  Angel.  I  mean,  am  I 
dreaming?  Who  are  you;  why  are  you  here?" 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  63 

The  girl  raised  her  hand  for  silence. 
"There  may  be  burglars  on  the  Barbary  Coast," 
her  words  were  eloquent  with  fine  sarcasm, 
"but  certainly  there  are  no  angels  there!"  So 
saying,  she  closed  the  door  softly  behind  her. 

Stunned  by  the  rebuke,  Pete  recalled  his 
words  of  the  night  before.  Nothing  mattered 
now,  however,  but  the  life  of  Hawkins,  and  he 
turned  and  softly  tiptoed  to  the  bedside. 

Hawkins  breathed  evenly  and  well.  His 
eyes  opened  for  a  moment  and  rested  on  Peter. 

"Well,  boy,  I've  been— there— and  back," 
he  gasped  slowly  and  with  great  effort,  then 
relapsed  into  life-giving  slumber. 

Pete,  greatly  refreshed  by  his  sleep  and  still 
dwelling  on  the  soul-satisfying  dreams  he  had 
had,  pulled  a  chair  to  the  window,  and  looked 
out  into  the  sunshine.  A  heavily  armed  man 
sat  beside  a  fire  directly  in  front  of  the  window. 
Clicking  of  poker  chips  and  occasional  loud 
voices  assailed  his  ears  from  the  adjoining 
rooms.  The  scene  of  the  near  murder,  trampled 
snow,  and  the  trail  of  blood  still  bore  mute 
witness  to  the  agonies  of  the  day  before,  and 
he  shifted  his  gaze  to  the  sick  bed.  Realiz 
ing  that  his  friend  was  being  nursed  back 
to  life,  only  in  all  probability  to  be  foully  mur 
dered  later  on,  for  some  unknown  reason,  sat 
badly  with  the  mountain  sunshine  and  snow 
without.  He  remembered  the  fifty  thousand 


64  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

dollars,  hiding,  so  his  captors  thought,  in  the 
mountains.  Realization  of  his  own  hopeless 
position,  soon  to  be  arrested  as  he  was,  and  in 
all  probability  for  the  murder  of  his  friend 
also  if  the  plan  of  the  gangsters  was  carried 
out,  flashed  through  his  mind.  Nevertheless, 
even  these  thoughts  failed  somehow  to 
strike  terror  to  his  heart.  Instead,  green 
fields  and  laughing  blue  eyes  danced  before 
him.  Who  was  she?  One  of  the  gangster's 
wives,  perhaps.  Yes, — undoubtedly,  yet  what 
would  have  happened  to  Hawkins  without  her? 
He  looked  fondly  into  the  face  of  the  sleeping 
man.  Did  she  only  nurse  him  because  she  too 
had  heard  of  the  fifty  thousand  dollars?  But 
certainly,  why  else?  Was  she  not  one  of  the 
gangsters,  living  in  the  same  house  with  them? 
His  lips  curled  bitterly.  What  wouldn't  a 
woman  stoop  to?  If  she  only  didn't  look  so 
much  like  the  angel  of  his  dream !  Peter  sighed 
and  looked  once  more  through  the  window. 

A  sudden  start  brought  him  to  his  feet  and 
he  pressed  close  to  the  glass.  The  figure  of 
a  man  coming  up  the  trail  seemed  to  blot  out 
the  sunshine  and  drag  the  swamp  of  Pete's 
dreams  along  with  him  toward  the  house.  Pete 
thought  back,  then  like  a  flash  he  remembered 
him.  It  was  Duller  Garret!  The  man  he 
drank  with  at  the  Gold  Nugget  Saloon.  A  feel 
ing  of  relief  came  over  him,  only  instantly  to 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  65 

leave  him  as  he  thought  of  the  letter  to  his 
father.  It  was  Buller  who  talked  to  the  boy 
who  carried  the  letter  for  San  Francisco ! 

As  the  man  approached  the  door,  a  fem 
inine  voice  greeted  him. 

"Good  morning,  Buller,"  it  rang  out — 
"Buller,"  she  called  him  Buller!  Pete  winced, 
as  the  voice  went  on :  "We've  been  expecting 
you  all  night  long.  Got  your  Mr.  Burglar 
all  right." 

The  two  were  inside  the  house  now  and 
Pete  found  it  necessary  to  step  lightly  to  the 
door  to  follow  the  conversation.  She  was  still 
talking.  uBut  why  did  they  shoot  this  poor 
mountaineer?  Is  that  part  of  the  plan,  too?" 
Pete  heard  her  ask. 

"Then,  he's  dead?"  Buller  seemed  suddenly 
elated. 

"No,"  she  answered,  "he's  still  alive." 

"Hell.     Get  me  Al,  hurry  up." 

As  Buller  thus  spoke  to  the  girl  Pete  stirred 
uneasily.  How  dare  the  brute  order  her  about 
so !  As  he  asked  himself  this  question,  he  heard 
the  approach  of  a  man  followed  by  angry 
words  from  Bull. 

"What's  this,  Al,  Hawkins  ain't  bumped?" 

"We're  bumpin'  fer  money,  ain't  we?" 
Alguin  retorted. 

"There  ya  go  agin,  always  belly-achin'  fer 
cash.  Ain't  ya  allus  got  yer  dough?" 


66  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

"Sure,  but  we're  collectin'  this  time  fer 
keepin'  'em  alive.  Listen/'  (Alguin  got  confiden 
tial)  "the  dip  in  there  slips  this  Hawkins  bloke 
the  wad,  fifty  thousand  bucks;  he  caches  it  in 
the  hills,  jigs  up  and  they  go  after  it,  see? 
Hawkins,  when  his  pipes  er  workin*  again,  tips 
us  where  the  sugar  lays;  blooey,  we  cash  in  all 
around,  get  me?" 

"Gotja,"  Duller  grunted.  "Where  they 
at?" 

Pete  heard  footsteps  coming  toward  the 
door  as  he  quickly  regained  his  chair  by  the 
window.  The  door  opened. 

"So,  we  meets  again,  Mr.  Peter  Alden, 
J-A-R."  Bull's  words  had  a  sickening  purr  to 
them,  as  he  greeted  his  glowering  prisoner. 

Pete  snapped  quickly  up  from  his  chair,  his 
full  six  feet  towering  even  larger  in  his  corduroy 
breeches  and  thick  flannel  shirt.  With  stubborn 
hair  breaking  clean  from  a  massive  forehead, 
high  cheek  bones,  jaws  squared,  his  mouth 
narrowed  to  a  slit,  Pete  looked  anything  but 
the  crestfallen,  despondent  drunkard  Buller  re 
membered.  For  a  moment  the  gangster  hesi 
tated,  then  continued  his  purring.  "Feelin' 
cocky  for  a  burglar  guy,  ain't  ya?"  His 
shifty  eyes  took  in  the  entire  room  at  a  glance. 
A  soft  fluffy  handkerchief  caught  his  eye,  and 
his  face  flushed  instantly  as  he  continued  talk 
ing.  "Maybe  my  little  Missus'  been  feedin' 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  67 

ya  too  good.  No  hard  feelin's  though, 
seein's  how  yer  not  stayin'  long.  Sit  down." 

Pete  huddled  himself  on  the  window-sill 
and  looked  out,  while  Bull  calmly  rolled  a  yel 
low  cigarette.  Observing  the  cigarette,  Pete 
looked  from  Bull  to  the  sick  bed.  If  Bull  got 
the  significance  of  the  look,  he  ignored  it,  and 
before  he  could  apply  a  match,  Pete's  long 
right  arm  shot  out  like  a  flash,  grasping  rat-tail 
mustache,  hand-made  cigarette  and  all  in  a  vice- 
like  grip.  With  a  grinding  jerk  he  threw  the 
cigarette  to  the  floor  and  ground  it  under  his 
heel. 

uRat!  There's  a  man  over  there,  sick. 
You  make  the  air  rotten  enough  without  light 
ing  up!" 

Bull,  white  with  rage,  sprang  back,  reach 
ing  for  the  gun  on  his  hip,  but  Pete,  with  legs 
wide  apart,  and  hands  on  hips,  sneered  sar 
castically:  "Dog,  you  can't  shoot,  got  to  be 
dark  for  you  to  work!" 

Bull's  fingers  twitched  nervously  at  the 
holster,  yet  he  hesitated.  As  he  stood  thus, 
a  cunning  gleam  came  into  his  eyes.  "Kinda 
nasty  this  mornin'  ain't  ya? — guess  I'll  write 
yer  old  man  an'  tell  'im  as  how  yer  all 
grown  up  now  in  man's  clothes."  Bull  followed 
his  words  by  pulling  a  letter  from  his  pocket, 
which  Pete  recognized  at  once  as  the  one  he 
himself  had  written.  Bull  continued:  "This 


68  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

thing  don't  read  much  like  a  man  wrote  it 
though,  think  I  kin  add  some  news  to  it.  I'm 
comin'  in  agin,"  he  continued,  his  voice  lowered 
almost  to  a  snarl,  "an  when  I  do,  ya'd  better 
be  a  little  polite,  if  ya  expect  to  see  papa 
agin'."  Then  the  door  closed  behind  him,  fol 
lowed  instantly  by  the  rattle  of  dishes  on  a  tray, 
and  a  woman's  voice  saying:  "Oh,  I  beg  your 
pardon,  Buller.  I  was  just  taking  in  something 
to  eat." 

"Well,  don't,  and  yer  not  goin'  in  there 
any  more.  That  goes !  Here,  Al,  throw  this 
chuck  at  'em." 

If  Buller  could  have  witnessed  the  flash 
of  color  in  Pete's  white  face,  as  he  listened  to 
the  words,  he  might  not  have  waited  long  for 
his  next  visit  to  the  sick  room.  Alguin  obedi 
ently  shoved  the  door  open,  and  placed  a  crude 
tin  tray  of  food  on  the  floor.  "Bring  that 
junk,"  he  ordered,  indicating  the  two  basins  of 
crimson  water  beneath  the  sick  bed. 

Pete  did  as  ordered  and  followed  Alguin 
out,  passing  down  a  short  hallway  into  what 
proved  to  be  a  sort  of  washroom,  once  used  by 
laborers.  He  lingered  in  this  room,  and  on  the 
way  back,  as  long  as  possible,  but  for  some  rea 
son  or  other  the  house  seemed  deserted  and 
only  Alguin,  the  sick  man  and  himself  re 
mained  of  the  considerable  group  who  had  been 
there  during  the  night. 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  69 

After  feeding  hot  broth  to  Hawkins  and 
smoothing  as  best  he  could  the  coarse  pillows 
of  the  bed,  he  plunged  hungrily  into  his  own 
plate  of  fat  sandwiches,  washing  great  mouth- 
fuls  down  with  hot  coffee.  In  spite  of  the  hec 
tic  shape  his  affairs  had  taken,  he  was  surprised 
to  find  that  he  still  had  a  semblance  of 
the  buoyancy  of  spirit  that  had  come  to  him  as 
he  told  his  story  to  Hawkins.  Even  the  steal 
ing  of  his  letter  home  failed  to  kill  it.  Per 
haps  it  came  with  the  knowledge  that  Hawkins 
had  passed  the  crisis.  He  would  not  face  an 
other  one !  Pete  swore  as  he  started  a  savage 
bite.  The  bite  ended  abruptly,  however,  as 
his  teeth  brought  up  sharply  against  something 
in  the  sandwich  decidedly  unbitable.  Curiously 
Pete  pried  the  slices  of  bread  apart  and  peered 
between.  Then  he  started  eating  as  calmly  as 
possible  at  another  corner!  With  pounding 
heart  he  looked  stealthily  about,  to  see  if  he 
was  observed.  At  length,  feeling  certain  he  was 
secure,  he  slipped  from  between  the  slices  of 
bread,  a  snugly  folded  bit  of  brown  paper  and 
read: 

"Hawkins  cached  the  fifty  thousand  dollars  you  stole 
back  of  Jumbo  Point,  ten  paces  due  East  discovery  stake 
old  Cherry  Blossom  Claims.  Destroy  this.  Tarn." 

For  a  moment  Pete  gazed,  as  though  fasci 
nated,  at  the  paper.  Footsteps  approached  his 
door,  and  someone  seemed  about  to  enter.  With 


70  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

a  quick  movement  he  shoved  the  note,  remain 
der  of  the  sandwich  and  all  into  his  mouth, 
washing  them  down  with  coffee,  before  he 
turned  and  faced  the  door. 

Four  men,  three  of  whom  Pete  recognized, 
entered.  Duller  came  first,  with  Alguin  and  his 
mate  of  the  day  before  following,  but  the 
fourth  man  was  a  stranger  to  Pete.  As  they 
closed  the  door  behind  them  Pete  observed  that 
Bull's  bravery  seemed  to  increase  with  the  size 
of  his  gang. 

"Now,  we're  talkin'  business,"  he  smirked, 
"and  we  won't  git  rough  unless  papa's  boy 
needs  a  spankin'."  All  but  the  fourth  man  of 
the  gangsters  joined  in  loud  guffaws.  At  the 
noise  Pete  observed  Hawkins'  eyes  open  and 
then  close  quickly.  "Kin  yer  mountain  gopher 
talk  yet?"  pursued  Bull,  indicating  the  bed. 

"No."  Pete  spoke  as  much  to  Hawkins  as 
to  the  gangsters.  "A  dozen  words  and  his 
lungs  will  flood  with  blood  and  that'll  make 
you  murderers." 

"Yer  not  talking  'bout  us"  snapped  Alguin. 
"Yer  the  murderer;  four  men  an'  a  lady  saw 
ya  do  it,  an'  'ud  swear  to  it!" 

"Well,"  Bull  interrupted,  "he'd  better  be 
talkin'  by  tonight,  blood  or  no  blood.  We're 
runnin'  just  criss-cross  to  orders.  You'd  oughta 
be  takin'  a  nice  long  ride  now,  and  yer  gopher 
friend  ought  to  be  pushin'  up  lilies.  Yer  too 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  71 

valuable  stock  to  have  sittin'  purty  out  here  in 
the  open.  I  holds  that  a  deal's  a  deal.  I'm  fer 
going  straight  ahead  with  the  program.  But 
little  Phil,  here,"  Bull  nodded  his  head  toward 
Alguin,  "says  yer  offerin'  a  new  deal.  How 
about  it?"  Before  Pete  could  answer,  Buller's 
eyes  swept  the  room,  stopped  in  front  of  the 
bed  and  flashed  back  to  Pete.  "Jest  a  minute, 
you.  Stick  up  yer  dukes,  I'm  lookin'  fer  a  little 
dry-goods." 

Buller  ripped  open  the  flap  of  Pete's  left 
pocket  and  with  a  smile,  more  like  a  snarl, 
extracted  a  lady's  handkerchief.  As  though 
what  he  had  found  confirmed  a  growing  sus 
picion,  he  turned  on  Alguin  and  said  deter 
minedly:  "I'm  tellin'  ya  again,  Phil,  this  is 
bad  business.  Orders  is  orders.  If  old  J.  D. 
finds  out  we're  crossin'  him  it's  Deer  Lodge 
fer  us."  Pete,  looking  anxiously  toward  the 
bed,  thought  he  saw  Hawkins'  face  twitch  a 
little  at  this  speech. 

Little  Phil  replied:  "Well,  ya  asked  him 
for  his  deal,  didn't  you?  Let's  have  it." 

Buller  registered  half-defiance  and  half- 
agreement,  but  said  nothing,  as  he  indicated 
that  Pete  should  explain  his  offer. 

"Well,"  Pete  began,  "there's  a  little  matter 
of  fifty  thousand  dollars,  that  I'm  not  caring  a 
hell  of  a  lot  about,  seeing  how  things  are.  You 
can  have  it  if  you  play  the  game." 


72  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

"Where  is  it?"  asked  Buller,  plainly  sus 
picious. 

"Used  to  be  in  a  safe,"  Pete  bantered. 

"Don't  get  funny,"  Buller  threatened, 
"where's  it  now?" 

"That's  my  game."  Pete's  new  manner 
was  baffling. 

"Just  supposing  for  a  minute  there  is  fifty 
thousand  dollars  in  one  place  in  the  world, 
what's  yer  game?"  Buller  demanded,  as 
though  determined  to  go  through  with  the  talk 
for  Alguin's  sake,  though  Pete  was  certain  his 
fate  was  already  fixed  in  the  leader's  mind. 

"Just  what  I  named  to  your  nice  little  mur 
derer  over  there,"  Pete  replied,  motioning  to 
ward  Alguin.  "Wait  'till  Hawkins  here  can 
talk,  then  let  me  lead  you  to  the  cache ;  you  for 
get  me  and  the  stuff's  yours.  Fair  enough,  isn't 
it?" 

"Now,  then,  yer  talkin'  purty,"  Buller  re 
torted.  "But,  it  don't  go.  We  got  to  know 
where  it  is,  and  what  if  there  ain't  fifty  thou 
sand  dollars,  or  any  dollars?" 

"Well,  you've  still  got  us,  if  it  isn't,  haven't 
you?"  Pete  asked. 

"That's  one  thing  ya  said  right,"  Buller 
replied,  and  his  expression  left  no  doubt  of  its 
sinister  meaning  in  Pete's  mind.  Turning  to 
his  companions,  Buller  advised  'holding  a  meet- 
in'  '  on  the  subject,  and  finally  led  the  men  out 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  73 

of  the  room,  but  not  until  he  had  warned  Pete 
to  have  his  sick  friend  talking  by  night. 

The  strain  of  the  thing  was  beginning  to 
tell  on  Pete.  Even  his  new  fighting  spirit  failed 
to  come  to  his  rescue  as  he  took  stock  of  the 
situation,  pacing,  as  he  did  so,  back  and  forth 
in  the  room. 

Outside,  the  sun  continued  shining  as 
brightly  as  ever.  A  bird  even  had  the  temerity 
to  hop  up  on  his  very  window-sill,  and  peer 
saucily  in,  and  as  Pete  watched  it  peck  about 
for  a  moment  or  so  and  then  flit  merrily  away, 
the  strangeness  of  his  situation  came  to  him  in 
a  new  light.  Here  was  a  handful  of  men,  and 
a  woman,  thrown  together  entirely  by  circum 
stances.  Yet  one  of  the  men,  a  simple,  clean 
man  of  the  hills,  was  lying  at  the  point  of  death, 
and  a  woman,  lovely  to  behold,  a  veritable 
angel  among  devils  it  seemed,  yet  withal  was 
among  them!  "Four  men  and  a  lady  saw  you 
kill  him."  Alguin's  words  mocked  and  jeered 
as  Pete  thought  of  the  woman.  It  was  easy 
for  him  to  visualize  crime  in  crowded  slums  of 
great  cities,  but  here  it  seemed  wholly  unnat 
ural  and  awful.  If  there  was  a  God  anywhere, 
surely  the  glistening  white  mountains,  dark 
mysterious  canyons,  snow-covered  forests  and 
frozen  streams  should  know  him !  Yet  in  all  his 
checkered  career  Peter  could  not  recall  a  scene 
so  foul  as  the  shooting  of  Hawkins,  or  a  plot 


74  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

so  dastardly  as  the  one  in  which  he  was  the 
principal  actor.  What  was  the  answer  to  it 
all?  A  dozen  times  he  asked  himself  the  ques 
tion.  What  were  Buller  Garret's  mysterious 
orders?  And  the  girl,  Tarn;  why  had  she  writ 
ten  him  the  note? 

The  scene  shifted  to  Frisco,  to  the  home 
of  his  father.  How  he  must  feel,  seeing  his 
only  son,  apple  of  his  eye,  placarded  as  a  com 
mon  burglar !  And  no  denial  of  the  accusation 
to  soothe  his  tortured  heart!  But  all  this  was 
past  and  gone,  still  raw  and  sore  to  be  sure, 
but  an  old  wound,  nevertheless,  compared 
with  the  ominous  hours  ahead.  He  walked 
over  to  Hawkins  and  tenderly  held  his  still 
hands.  He  felt  the  pulses,  and  noted  that  they 
were  weak,  but  persistent.  Given  half  a  chance, 
the  sturdy  mountaineer  could  soon  demand  an 
accounting  of  his  enemies,  Pete  assured  him 
self. 

While  Pete  stood  thus,  Hawkins  opened  his 
eyes  and  smiled.  Not  the  weak  smile  of  a  sick 
man,  but  the  confident  smile  of  a  man  who  never 
loses,  be  the  odds  against  him  what  they  may. 
He  motioned  a  desire  to  talk,  and  Pete  leaned 
closely  to  listen. 

"Heard  'em,"  he  whispered.  "Company 
trick-—want  Dead  Horse  Mine — not  you. 
They'll  try  to  bump  me  again." 

"Did  you   hear   about  the   fifty   thousand 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  75 

you're  supposed  to  have  cached  for  me?"  Pete 
asked  anxiously. 

"Yes." 

"You're  supposed  to  say  it's  back  of  Jumbo 
Point,  ten  paces  due  east  discovery  stake, 
Cherry  Blossom  Claim,"  Pete  spoke  softly, 
watching  both  the  door  and  window  for  pos 
sible  eavesdroppers. 

"Hell  of  a  place!"  As  Hawkins  spoke  he 
would  have  chuckled  over  the  words,  but  his 
face  contracted  in  pain,  and  he  patted  Pete's 
hand  instead.  A  moment  later  he  resumed. 
"Take  a  week  to  get  there;  I'll  be  fighting 
then." 

"No,  you  won't,  not  for  a  month.  I'm 
doing  the  fighting  for  both  of  us;  you're  going 
to  get  better  first,  and  that  will  take  a  long 


time." 


"Coin'  to  fight,  just  the  same,"  Hawkins 
continued,  undaunted.  "With  my  brains,  not 
my  guns.  Got  a  trick  or  two  myself,  just  you 
get  me  out  of  here  and  play  easy  till  I  lead." 
Pete  hung  over  the  words,  not  certain  if  his 
patient  knew  the  full  plot  against  them,  and 
wondering  if  he  should  tell  him  all  he  knew. 
Hawkins'  lips  moved  again.  "Company  gun 
crew  all  here,"  he  muttered,  waving  feeble 
arms  about,  "who  else?" 

"A  woman — lady — girl." 

"Three  of  'em?"  Hawkins  raised  his  brow. 


76  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

"No,  only  one." 

"Name?" 

"Tarn,  that's  all  I  know,"  Pete  replied. 

"Tamarack  Susie,  gun  crew's  brains." 
Hawkins  shook  his  finger  warningly  in  Pete's 
puzzled  face.  "She's  .  .  .  ."  Hawkins  wanted 
to  say  more  but  his  throat  rattled,  and  a  fleck 
of  blood  colored  his  white  lips. 

Pete,  thoroughly  alarmed,  spoke  sharply, 
"Stop,  not  another  word,  keep  still!"  he  or 
dered,  and  hurriedly  bathed  the  man's  lips, 
propped  him  higher  on  the  pillow  and  listened 
anxiously  at  the  rattling  chest  for  the  dreaded 
hemorrhage.  At  the  end  of  a  minute  he  sighed 
in  relief  and  again  took  his  seat  by  the  bedside. 

Hour  after  hour  he  sat  there,  now  intently 
watching  the  calm  face  of  the  heroic  Hawkins, 
battling  silently  against  heavy  odds  as  he  was, 
and  now  gazing  far  out  into  the  mountains, 
watching  the  setting  sun  polish  to  a  glistening 
finish  hard  white  ridges  of  the  mountains. 

"Somewhere  out  there,"  he  told  himself, 
"Peter  Alden,  Jr.,  is  going  to  learn  something." 

With  darkness  came  blustering  wind,  howl 
ing  mournfully  about  the  cabin,  shaking  win 
dows  and  blowing  puffs  of  drifted  snow  in  fine 
frozen  grains  through  the  tiny  cracks.  The 
air  was  freezing  cold,  and  Peter  feared  for 
Hawkins.  Already  he  had  added  his  own  fur 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  77 

coat  to  the  meager  covering,  and  now  stood 
beating  his  arms  about  to  keep  his  blood  run 
ning  hot.  It  was  a  losing  fight,  and  Pete  cursed 
bitterly.  Time  and  again  he  tried  the  door,  but 
it  was  always  locked.  Outside  the  guard  hud 
dled  close  under  a  hastily-thrown-up  shelter 
where  a  fire  glowed  red  in  the  blackness  made 
weird  by  blowing  snow.  The  house  was  certainly 
deserted,  Pete  thought,  but  even  fiends  might 
send  to  their  victims  heat,  a  light  and  food. 
Duller  must  have  won  his  point  and  already  the 
gangsters  were  probably  on  the  way  to  Moapa 
for  the  sheriff.  At  the  thought  Pete's  jaws 
bulged  and  his  eyes  narrowed  to  slits.  Haw 
kins,  a  tie  that  held  him  there  more  securely 
than  forty  iron  chains,  could  give  life-saving 
advice,  if  he  dared  let  him  talk,  but  it  was  no 
use,  and  he  turned  again  and  looked  at  the  fire 
in  the  yard.  As  he  did  so,  four  men,  crouching 
low  against  the  wind,  crossed  the  path  of  lurid 
light  and  made  for  the  cabin.  A  heavy  key 
rasped  in  the  door,  and  men  stamping  snow 
from  coarse  boots  came  in.  A  moment  more, 
and  Pete  heard  the  crackling  of  kindling  wood 
in  the  hearth.  Then  his  own  door  was  thrown 
open  and  Buller  Garret,  kerosene  lamp  in  hand, 
entered,  his  gloating  smile  appearing  grotesque 
in  the  sudden  light  of  the  room. 

"Feelin*    nice    and    polite,    tonight,    Peter 
J-A-R?"  he  asked,  as  he  placed  the  light  on  the 


78  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

soap  box  in  the  corner.  Without  waiting  for 
an  answer  he  retraced  his  steps,  leaving  the 
door  wide  open.  Pete  was  genuinely  grateful 
for  the  warm  air  that  swept  in,  but  above  all 
for  the  opportunity  to  see  Bull's  company.  He 
was  relieved  to  observe  the  same  faces  he  had 
seen  with  Buller  before. 

Some  one  was  preparing  a  meal  and  the 
aroma  of  coffee  coupled  with  the  sound  of 
crackling  fire  revived  his  spirits. 

A  half  hour  later  he  was  again  feeding 
broth  to  Hawkins,  eyeing  the  while  a  huge  por 
tion  of  beef,  broiled  to  a  char,  which  had  been 
sent  in  for  himself.  Nothing  feminine  about 
the  meal,  Pete  mused  between  huge  bites,  as 
he  thought  of  the  sandwiches.  Even  the  coffee 
now  was  unusually  strong  and  black  and  with 
out  sugar. 

The  meal  finished,  Pete  was  ordered  to  join 
the  circle  about  the  fire.  Tenderly  he  tucked 
covering  about  the  sick  man,  and  stepped  out 
to  join  the  circle  of  gangsters,  expecting  to 
be  told  the  course  of  action  that  had  undoubt 
edly  been  agreed  upon.  As  Pete  came  into  the 
room,  he  heard  words  pass.  Little  Phil  Alguin 
was  talking  earnestly  to  Bull. 

" and  better  lay  it  to  'im  jes  as  she 

figgered  it,  eh,  Buller?" 

Pete's  presence  stopped  an  answer. 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  79 

"Any  objection  to  lightin'  up?"  Duller 
smirked  as  Pete  took  a  seat. 

"Not  out  here,"  Pete  replied,  now  as 
before  finding  it  impossible  even  to  feign  socia 
bility  with  Buller  Garret.  With  an  effort  he 
relaxed  into  a  less  hostile  mood,  and  tried  to 
smile.  Buller  took  his  changed  manner  as  evi 
dence  of  a  partial  victory  and  continued: 

"Old  Gopher  in  there  talkin'  yet?" 

"He  did,  and  it  nearly  killed  him,"  Pete 
answered  simply. 

"Talk  location  stuff?" 

"Yes." 

"Where  is  it?"  It  was  plain  Buller  thought 
Pete  was  lying. 

"It  used  to  be  in  a  safe." 

"Still  cocky,  huh?"   Buller's  face  darkened. 

"Give  'em  the  dope,  don't  get  to  fightin' 
again,"  interrupted  Alguin,  impatiently. 

"Well,  yer  damn  lucky  to  be  sittin'  there," 
Buller  continued.  "Don't  mind  tellin'  ya  what's 
what.  Order  is,  old  Gopher  in  there's  got  to 
be  croaked.  That's  worth  more  than  cash  to 
me.  I  ain't  allus  been  free  an'  loose-like 
myself,  an*  he  knows  it.  Then  there's  you. 
Yer  worth  five  thousand  berries,  in  jail. 
More'n  that,  we  could  fasten  old  Gopher's 
bumpin'  onto  you  easier'n  hell,  and  that's  that. 
Now  afore  I  gets  here,  you  up  and  talks  fifty 
thousand  cash  to  my  pals,  and  they  falls  for  it 


80  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

hard.  Personally,  don't  mind  sayin'  I  think  yer 
a  liar.  But  I  can't  play  my  hunch  against  all 
the  boys  here,  so  we  had  a  meetin'.  I'm  tellin' 
ya  all  this,  so  you  won't  go  figgerin'  crossways 
later,  see?  Well,  we  had  a  meetin'  and  here's 
the  dope :  First  off,  Hawkins'  gotta  go.  We 
ain't  sayin'  what's  happened  to  him,  he's  jest 
takin'  a  little  trip.  You're  stayin'  right  here. 
Slim  over  there  goes  after  your  cash.  If  he  gets 
it,  you  can  burn  up  snow  from  here  to  hell,  if 
you  want  to,  I  don't  care.  If  he  don't  find  it, 
well,  there'll  be  a  nice  little  necktie  party  for 
bumpin'  Hawkins.  Somebody's  got  to  be  the 
goat,  you  know,  an'  anyhow,"  Bull  saw  his 
error  and  hurried  on,  uthe  boys  here  all  say 
you  got  the  dope  on  the  cash  from  Hawkins 
and  bumped  him.  That  bein'  the  case,  you'd 
oughta  be  damn  grateful  that  we're  not  turn 
ing  ya  over."  Buller  finished  his  long  speech 
with  an  air  of  finality. 

"How  do  I  know  you  won't  finish  Hawkins 
just  as  soon  as  I  tell  you  where  the  cache  is?" 
Pete  asked  carelessly. 

"How  do  we  know  you  ain't  double-crossin' 
us  on  where  the  long  green's  reposin'?"  coun 
tered  Buller. 

"You  have  my  word." 

"Yeh,  an'  that's  a  hell  of  a  lot,  ain't  it?" 
scoffed  Bull.  "An'  you've  got  my  word  the  old 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  81 

Gopher  won't  be  bumped  if  yer  telling  the 
truth." 

"Then,  what  will  you  do  with  him?  Why 
not  leave  him  here?" 

"Now,  yer  askin'  questions  that  ya  don't 
have  no  concern  in  at  all.  An'  now  that  weVe 
talked  to  ya  like  genelmen,  what's  the  an 
swer?" 

Under  such  circumstances  one  with  half  the 
astuteness  of  an  Alden  could  have  answered 
the  question  at  once.  Pete  knew  the  game  was 
up;  he  would  be  glad  to  have  the  few  days'  res 
pite  afforded  by  the  hunt  for  the  mythical  fifty 
thousand,  of  course.  But  Hawkins'  words 
flashed  through  his  mind.  "Tamarack  Susie, 
brains  of  the  gun  crew,"  he  had  said.  And  she, 
the  brains  of  the  gun  crew,  had  given  him  the 
location  of  the  cache!  Was  it  a  trick?  When 
sober,  Pete  seldom  lost  at  playing  poker.  Now 
he  studied  the  stern,  crafty  faces  about  him. 
If  they  knew  she  had  sent  him  the  Jumbo  Point 
location  and  heard  him  name  it  now,  they  would 
know  he  lied,  and  he  could  expect  no  mercy  at 
their  hands.  The  Company's  game,  whatever 
it  was,  called  for  Hawkins'  life.  Pete  knew 
the  men  before  him  cared  nothing  for  murder. 
He  knew  the  system  they  represented,  for  he 
had  often  heard  his  father  tell  how  escaped 
criminals,  men  with  death  penalties  over  their 


82  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

heads,  often  entered  criminal  service  for  de 
signing  men  of  affairs,  and  he  knew  that  these 
criminals  had  little  chance  of  escaping  the 
clutches  once  they  entered  such  service.  But 
why  had  Tarn  written  the  note?  Hawkins' 
warning  finger,  and  the  gurgle  of  blood  in  the 
miner's  throat,  flashed  back  to  Peter.  Eight 
eyes,  all  searching  for  the  slightest  hint 
of  deception,  were  focused  upon  him.  Still 
he  hesitated.  His  lips  were  dry,  but  he  dared 
not  moisten  them.  Then  Hawkins'  voice  van 
ished  and  his  warning  finger  faded  from  Pete's 
mind.  In  its  place  came  flooding  in  the  dream 
of  the  night  before,  and  he  saw  again  the  angel- 
girl  pouring  water  between  the  parched  lips  of 
Hawkins !  There  could  be  no  mistake,  the 
angel  was  surely  Tamarack  Sue ! 

Pete's  face  broke  into  a  smile.  Almost  en 
thusiastically  he  slapped  his  knee  and  ex 
claimed:  "You  mean,  then,  that  for  this  stink 
ing  fifty  thousand,  you'll  let  me  go  free  and  you 
won't  bump  Hawkins?" 

Buller  was  plainly  surprised  and  taken 
aback  by  Pete's  evident  certainty  of  the  money. 
Nevertheless  he  answered  steadily: 

"That's  our  game,  where's  the  money?" 

"Jumbo  Point,  ten  paces  due  East  of  the 
discovery  stake  of  Cherry  Blossom  Claim." 
Like  a  poker  player  with  his  all  on  the  board 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  83 

before  him,  Peter  dealt  the  words  and  waited 
tensely  for  the  answer. 

With  a  triumphant  smile  Alguin  slapped 
Buller  on  the  shoulder.  "Then,  she's  right 
again,  what'd  I  tell  you?" 

Even  Slim  Eliot,  dark-skinned  and  quiet, 
the  runner  who  Pete  knew  could  bring  back  only 
a  sentence  of  death,  seemed  to  be  unusually 
pleased. 

"Let's  figure  the  cut,"  someone  suggested. 
All  but  Buller  seemed  to  consider  the  money 
as  good  as  in  their  hands. 

Pete's  momentary  triumph  was  short-lived. 
Buller  faced  him  and  slowly  drew  from  his 
pocket  a  small  crumpled  handkerchief.  Pull 
ing  it  meditatively  through  his  fingers,  he 
caught  Pete's  eye  and  muttered : 

"Sumthin'  queer  about  all  this,  sumthin' 
damn  funny.  Eliot  starts  in  the  morning. 
Hawkins'll  be  leavin'  tonight." 


CHAPTER  VI 

OETE  had  no  opportunity  to  be  alone  with 
•*•  Hawkins  again  that  night.  He  had  hardly 
finished  naming  the  location  of  the  money,  in 
fact,  before  preparations  were  made  for  the 
removal  of  the  wounded  man.  A  deep  wagon 
box,  once  used  for  hauling  gravel,  but  now  rest 
ing  on  crude  runners,  was  backed  up  to  the 
door.  Although  fully  a  foot  of  straw  covered 
the  bottom,  he  insisted  on  placing  his  own  mat 
tress  on  top  of  it,  declaring  to  the  gangsters 
that  even  the  slightest  bump  might  mean  death 
for  his  friend. 

Tears  of  grief  flooded  his  eyes  as  he  ten 
derly  dressed  once  more  the  jagged  hole  made 
by  Alguin's  bullet.  The  rough  sled  loomed  hor 
ribly  like  a  coffin  in  the  semi-darkness  of  the 
doorway,  as  with  choking  voice  he  uttered 
words  of  hope  and  encouragement,  tucked  his 
heavy  fur  coat  over  the  form  and  placed  a  hard 
pillow  beneath  the  grizzled  head.  Hawkins 
was  wide  awake  and  apparently  aware  of  the 
meaning  of  his  trip,  yet  he  said  no  word.  For 
a  moment  their  eyes  met,  eyes  of  two  strong 
men  sorely  pressed,  saying  to  each  other:  "  'Till 
we  meet  again.1' 

Slim  Eliot  cracked  a  whip;  the  sled  moved 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  85 

out  into  the  night,  and  the  door,  as  though  be 
grudging  even  the  pitifully  weak  light  that 
streamed  out,  slammed  shut. 

With  black  despair  in  his  heart,  Pete  ig 
nored  an  invitation  to  sit  by  the  fire  and  went  to 
his  room.  He  tried  to  think  clearly,  to  form 
a  plan,  but  nothing  came  to  him.  The  air 
seemed  oppressive,  and  the  room  changed  its 
aspect  from  a  dungeon  vault  to  a  huge  square 
sepulchre,  made  sacred  by  the  blood  of  Brud 
Hawkins.  He  seemed  still  to  look  into  the 
eyes  that  said:  "You  are  my  pardner,  and  it's 
your  lead."  As  Pete  dwelt  on  the  thought  he 
fervently  raised  his  eyes  toward  heaven, 
clenched  his  fists  and  made  a  vow:  "Pardner, 
I'm  not  holding  many  cards  right  now,  but  such 
as  I  have,  by  God,  I'm  going  to  play!" 

With  his  solemn  oath  came  a  new  zeal  that 
sent  blood  tingling  through  his  veins,  as  he 
nervously  paced  the  room,  pausing  each  time 
like  a  caged  panther  to  gaze  menacingly  out  at 
the  gangsters  before  the  fire.  Whiskey  and 
cards  absorbed  the  attention  of  all  save  Buller, 
who  alone  sat  facing  his  door  and  did  not  drink. 

Questions  criss-crossed  constructive 
thoughts,  as  he  tried  to  make  a  plan.  Why  had 
Tarn  written  the  note?  Why  had  Hawkins 
warned  him  against  her?  He  had  Hawkins' 
own  words  as  a  partial  answer  to  this,  anyway 


86  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

— "Company  trick,  want  Dead  Horse  Mine," 
he  had  whispered.  Why  they  wanted  it,  he 
did  not  know.  He  remembered  Hawkins  say 
ing  he  hadn't  struck  anything  there.  Even  if 
he  had,  why  did  they  resort  to  murder?  As  he 
pondered  this  in  his  mind,  his  answer,  in  the 
shape  of  Buller  Garret,  looked  straight  at  him 
from  behind  the  gambling  table.  Putting  to 
gether  little  scraps  of  what  he  had  heard,  Pete 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  Hawkins  must  in 
some  way  have  been  crossing  these  very  gang 
sters.  Buller,  at  any  rate.  Probably  the  Com 
pany  knew  of  it,  and  used  their  knowledge  to 
get  rid  of  the  miner.  Carefully  Pete  checked 
up  the  details  of  the  past  five  days.  He  remem 
bered  that  a  crew  was  due  to  join  Hawkins 
and  himself  at  the  mine.  Just  when  or  where 
he  knew  not.  If  only  he  could  have  talked  with 
Hawkins  more ! 

Pete  recalled  the  words  spoken  before  the 
fireplace  by  Alguin.  After  all,  Tarn,  the  girl 
of  mystery,  must  have  laid  out  the  program 
that  took  Hawkins  away!  Even  so  he  could 
not  believe  that  Tamarack  Sue,  "Tarn,"  she  had 
signed  her  name,  belonged  to  the  gangsters. 
No,  never!  He  felt  morally  certain  he  could 
count  upon  her  help,  in  spite  of  the  mass  of 
conflicting  evidence. 

But  what  to  do?     Whenever  he  reached 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  87 

that  point,  he  seemed  face  to  face  with  a  sheer 
cliff  of  granite.  He  must  get  word  to  the  outer 
world,  but  how?  How?  How?  He  thought 
of  officers  at  Moapa.  "Lots  of  strangers  in 
town,  company  men,  mostly  in  public  offices." 
The  words  of  Hawkins  flew  back  to  him.  How 
much,  after  all,  this  man  of  the  hills  had  said 
in  so  few  hours !  No  wonder  he  was  a  thorn 
in  the  side  of  some. 

Pete  threw  himself  heavily  across  the 
empty  bed,  and  ran  nervous  fingers  through 
badly  tangled  hair.  A  second  there  and  he  ner 
vously  plunged  his  fist  deep  into  the  mattress 
beneath  him  and  whirled  again  to  his  feet. 

Outside  the  wind  had  died  down,  he  no 
ticed,  its  howling  reduced  to  only  occasional 
moans.  He  went  to  the  window.  The  guard's 
fire  was  now  a  bed  of  coals  and  two  men  sat 
beside  it.  They  seemed  unusually  alert,  Pete 
thought,  and  their  bearing  reminded  him  of 
what  he  had  heard  of  prison  camps  in  frozen 
Siberia. 

A  light  far  up  on  the  mountainside  at 
tracted  his  attention.  Someone  was  signalling, 
it  seemed,  as  three  times  the  lantern,  or  what 
ever  it  was,  swayed  in  a  wide  arc  and  disap 
peared.  A  minute  later  and  the  signal  was  re 
peated.  A  vague  feeling,  perhaps  only  a  for 
lorn  hope  inspired  by  dire  want  caused  Pete  to 


88  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

block  as  much  of  the  window  as  he  could.  Not 
satisfied  with  the  experiment,  he  unbuttoned  his 
flannel  shirt  and  held  it  like  a  bat's  wings  over 
the  square  pane  of  glass.  Three  times  he  moved 
quickly  aside,  then  stood  still  and  waited, 
hardly  daring  to  hope  for  an  answer.  Sud 
denly  the  light  reappeared,  repeated  three 
swings,  and  disappeared.  Fearing  to  raise  false 
hopes  within  him,  Pete  was  still  unwilling  to 
be  convinced.  He  waited  a  full  two  minutes, 
then  allowed  one  flash  only  to  pass  through 
the  window.  The  answer  came  back,  one  flash. 
Still  not  satisfied,  he  allowed  a  longer  interval 
of  darkness,  then  flapped  his  shirt  wings  for  five 
distinct  signals.  Eagerly  he  pressed  against 
the  pane  of  glass,  for  this  must  be  his  last  sig 
nal!  The  guards  had  changed  their  positions 
and  were  facing  him  now.  Seconds  flew  past, 
and  then  minutes,  it  seemed.  In  the  outer 
room  he  heard  signs  of  the  game  breaking  up. 
Would  the  answer  come?  He  had  been  at 
the  window  too  long  already,  his  silence  must 
have  made  Buller  suspicious !  He  began  but 
toning  his  shirt,  and  gave  a  last  intent  look  into 
the  darkness.  There  it  was!  With  pounding 
heart  he  counted  the  swings,  one-two-three-four 
•five !  Then  darkness.  They  were  meant  for 
him,  there  could  be  no  doubt  of  it  now!  But 
who  had  sent  them?  What  did  they  mean? 
At  any  rate,  whatever  they  meant,  he  was  not 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  89 

alone  against  his  enemies!  But  after  all,  who 
could  have  sent  them  to  him  if  not  Tarn  or 
Hawkins?  And  it  would  be  many  weeks  be 
fore  Hawkins  could  wave  a  lantern  on  a  cold 
winter  night.  Tarn,  then!  This  mystery  girl 
still  playing  a  double  role !  Pete  sauntered  to 
the  door  and  looked  out.  Buller  sat  alone  at 
the  table  gazing  fixedly  toward  Peter.  He 
beckoned  to  Pete  now  to  come  to  the  table,  and 
as  he  watched  him  approach,  he  ran  his  hand 
nervously  over  his  stringy  hair. 

"Jes'  in  case  ya  might  fergit  it,"  he  began, 
uyer  not  expected  to  leave.  In  case  ya  do,"  he 
continued,  "yer  gonna  be  plugged,  and  the  first 
crooked  work  from  the  outside,  even  if  ya 
don't  try  to  get  away,  means  you've  bumped 
Hawkins." 

"That  all?"  Pete  was  becoming  tired  of  the 
same  harangue  from  Buller. 

"No,  I  want  to  know  somethin'." 

"Well?" 

"How  long  was  Tamarack  in  that  room 
with  you?" 

"Only  to  help  dress  Hawkins'  wound,  so 
far  as  I  know." 

"An'  did  you  lug  her  mattress  in  there?" 

"No." 

"Did  Hawkins  talk  to  her?" 

"No." 


90  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

"Then,  how  did  she  know" — Buller  caught 
himself,  as  though  he  had  spoken  words  in 
tended  to  be  concealed. 

"How  did  she  know  what?"  Peter  de 
manded. 

To  evade  or  refuse  to  answer,  would  be  to 
show  fear.  That  was  exactly  what  Buller  did 
not  want,  especially  since,  for  some  unaccount 
able  reason,  he  did  fear  the  man  before  him. 

"How  did  she  know  where  Hawkins  cached 
the  wad?"  Buller  blurted. 

"Perhaps  you'd  better  ask  her.  That's 
what  /  would  have  to  do." 

"Maybe  she  doesn't  know,"  Bull  blustered, 
his  eyes  studying  Pete's  expression,  "and  any 
how,  Slim's  already  on  the  way.  This  thing's 
gettin'  on  my  nerves." 

"Don't  know  why  you're  so  dead  set  against 
me,"  Pete  started  on  a  new  tack,  hoping  against 
hope  that  something  might  develop. 

"Oh,  yes  ya  do,  yer  a  wise  'un,  all  right; 
Gopher  an'  you  goin'  to  frame  me,  huh?  Not 
Buller  Garret.  Oh,  don't  try  to  look  igno 
rant,"  he  went  on,  observing  Pete's  mystified 
expression.  "I'm  on  to  you,  'way  ahead  o'  you. 
'Tain't  the  first  time  that  old  mountain  goat's 
been  tryin'  to  fasten  sumpin'  onto  me — if  I 
thought  he  was  talkin',"  Buller's  face  clouded, 
as  a  new  thought  apparently  entered  his  head. 
"Well,  we  wouldn't  wait  fer  the  five  thousand 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  91 

they're  givin'  fer  you.  That's  more'n  likely  the 
bunk,  too,  seein'  yer  from  Frisco.  Guys  with  an 
old  man  fer  a  banker  don't  act  like  you;  looks 
queer  to  me.  Shouldn't  a  let  him  go  to  her," 
Bull  seemed  talking  to  himself  now.  "He'll 
be  speakin'  all  he  knows  afore  the  sun  comes 
up." 

The  two  gangsters  came  back  into  the  room 
dragging  straw  mattresses  behind  them.  Pete, 
seeing  that  Buller  was  apparently  through  talk 
ing,  went  again  to  his  room.  For  fully  five 
minutes  he  gazed  intently  toward  the  moun 
tains.  The  light  did  not  reappear.  Whatever 
the  significance,  he  knew  it  did  not  beckon  him 
to  come  to  it.  That  something  favorable  was 
brewing  in  the  hills  from  whence  it  came  he 
had  no  doubt,  but  just  what  his  part  in  what  was 
to  happen  would  be,  he  could  not  imagine. 

Pete  had  profited  much  by  his  short  talk 
with  Buller,  the  escaped  convict  as  Pete  had 
set  him  down  to  be.  He  was  undoubtedly  from 
San  Francisco,  judging  by  his  reference  to  the 
place,  Pete  mused — probably  one  of  the  many 
criminals  who  seem  to  be  satisfied  to  live  in 
crime,  so  long  as  they  escape  its  consequence, 
until  by  some  freak  chance  they  cross  the  path 
of  a  woman,  who  fans  into  a  frenzy  their  desire 
to  live,  and  exaggerates  the  chances  of  capture. 
Buller  and  Tarn  meant  something  to  each  other, 
of  that  Pete  felt  certain.  He  had  seen  what 


92  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

the  influence  of  a  good  woman  had  done  for 
men  before.  In  some,  it  had  awakened  slumber 
ing  conscience,  lifting  them  from  paths  of  de 
generacy  to  useful  lives.  But  in  these  men,  the 
soul  of  life  had  always  been  there,  it  had  only 
slept.  Buller  Garret  was  different.  Steeped 
in  slimy,  wilful  crime,  he  had  long  ago  lost  the 
spark  of  manhood,  if  he  had  ever  had  it.  Tam 
arack  Sue  then,  must  have  merely  inflamed  the 
animal  passion  within  him  that  craved  life,  and 
exaggerated  the  chances  of  losing  it.  This, 
surely,  accounted  for  his  suspicions  of  Haw 
kins,  and  some  one  exceedingly  clever  knew 
how  to  use  this  suspicion. 

As  he  went  over  the  details  of  his  conclu 
sions,  Pete  paused  at  the  door  and  looked  once 
more  at  Buller,  as  though  to  confirm  his  judg 
ment.  While  Alguin  and  his  companions  ar 
ranged  mattresses  for  the  night,  Buller  kept 
his  seat,  nervously  stacking  and  re-stacking 
little  piles  of  poker  chips.  Seeing  Pete  in  the 
doorway  he  reached  for  a  new  package  of  play 
ing  cards  and,  as  though  to  demonstrate  his 
unconcern,  he  broke  it  open  and  laid  out  a  hand 
of  solitaire.  Pete  observed  how  Buller's  greasy 
fingers,  some  nearly  black  from  fixing  the  wood 
fire  behind  him,  smudged  the  glossy  white  of 
the  cards. 

The  mind  of  man  is  his  greatest  ally  when 
serious  danger  seems  near,  and  now  as  Pete 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  93 

gazed  at  the  cards  before  Buller,  a  plan,  cer 
tain  and  definite,  formed  itself  as  though  by 
magic.  Striding  rapidly  forward  he  asked  per 
mission  to  go  to  the  wash-room.  As  he  passed 
he  noticed  how  Garret  sat  directly  in  front  of 
the  fire  and  always  seemed  cold.  He  observed 
that  he  had  even  had  his  mattress  laid  out  as 
close  to  the  fire  as  the  table  would  permit.  He 
stumbled  slightly  over  this  mattress  as  he 
crossed  the  room.  As  he  returned  he  retraced 
his  steps  carefully,  and  this  time  stumbling 
heavily  over  the  mattress,  plunged  headlong 
into  the  table.  The  impact  sent  the  table  crash 
ing  over  almost  to  the  burning  edge  of  the  logs 
and  in  the  general  confusion  that  followed,  Pete 
worked  fast.  Deftly  he  snatched  several  play 
ing  cards  from  the  floor  and  jammed  them  deep 
into  his  pocket;  others  he  pitched  into  the  fire. 
All  this  required  but  the  work  of  a  second. 
Regaining  his  feet  he  found  himself  looking  into 
the  muzzles  of  three  revolvers  as  he  stammered 
an  apology. 

uYa  might  not  a  meant  it,  but  don't  do  it 
again.  Better  go  get  locked  up  now."  Buller 
emphasized  his  words  by  waving  his  gun  to 
ward  Pete's  door. 

Elated  at  his  initial  success,  Pete  entered 
his  room  and  heard  the  heavy  lock  close  behind 
him.  He  listened  a  moment,  and  heard  one  of 
the  gangsters  drag  a  mattress  to  the  door.  They 


94  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

were  certainly  taking  no  chances,  Pete  mused, 
as  he  shifted  the  box  that  held  the  lamp  to  the 
bedside,  and  cautiously  pulled  a  card  from  his 
pocket.  Even  with  his  naked  eye  he  could  make 
out  the  print  of  Buller's  thumb.  He  counted 
the  cards,  and  found  he  had  five  of  them  1  Two 
he  hid  carefully  in  his  boot  top,  and  one  beneath 
his  mattress;  but  the  two  that  seemed  to  show 
the  best  prints,  he  wrapped  carefully  in  bits  of 
old  paper  and  returned  to  his  pockets.  So  far 
his  plan  had  worked  excellently,  but  it  is  one 
thing  to  have  a  sudden  inspiration,  quite  an 
other  to  nurse  it  along  against  seeming  impos 
sibilities.  So  thought  Pete,  as  he  studied  long 
and  hard  on  the  next  step. 

He  thought  of  the  light  on  the  hill.  It  cer 
tainly  meant  something!  Perhaps  a  message 
would  come  to  him  during  the  night.  That  was 
it!  The  signal  was  to  put  him  on  his  guard! 
He  went  to  the  window.  More  wood  had  been 
thrown  in  the  fire  and  tongues  of  flame  shot 
high  into  the  air,  throwing  a  dancing  light 
nearly  to  his  window.  Certainly  no  messenger 
could  approach  it  from  that  side !  He  took 
stock  once  more  of  the  room  and  observed 
again  how  bare  and  square  it  was.  Heavy 
boards  formed  the  partition  and  there  were  no 
doors  save  the  locked  one  just  outside  of  which 
a  gangster  slept.  His  eyes  swept  the  ceiling 
and  he  observed  little  cracks  here  and  there, 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  95 

but  on  the  whole  it  presented  a  job  well  done ; 
at  least,  no  human  could  come  through  it! 

Still,  Pete  refused  to  relax  his  vigil  by  the 
window.  The  night  must  be  two-thirds  spent, 
he  guessed,  and  yet  he  doggedly  refused  to 
sleep.  The  kerosene  light  sputtered,  its  yellow 
flame  giving  way,  little  by  little,  to  oily  black 
smoke.  The  guards  outside,  one  sleeping  while 
the  other  watched,  had  kept  the  fire  burning 
brightly  throughout  the  night.  The  room  was 
becoming  bitterly  cold,  but  the  memory  of  his 
coat  and  the  man  it  covered,  made  the  frost 
in  the  air  seem  almost  welcome.  In  spite  of 
himself,  as  the  minutes  dragged  on,  his  head 
refused  to  remain  erect.  Time  after  time  it 
sank  limply  forward,  only  to  be  jerked  back  by 
an  iron  will.  But  nature  could  not  be  denied, 
and  the  nods,  following  each  other  in  rapid  suc 
cession,  soon  became  fitful  slumber. 

A  sudden  feeling  that  he  was  not  alone  in 
the  room  roused  him  with  a  start.  He  whirled 
to  face  the  door,  and  turned  the  sputtering  wick 
in  the  lamp  higher,  as  he  searched  every  corner 
of  the  room.  He  was  mistaken.  Just  another 
trick  of  overwrought  nerves,  he  told  himself, 
and  settled  back  in  his  chair.  He  was  hardly 
settled  when  a  creaking  overhead  brought  him 
again  to  his  feet.  Tap-tap-tap — something 
soft  like  a  padded  hammer  was  striking  the 
board  above  him.  He  located  the  spot,  and  as 


96  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

though  fascinated,  watched  a  knot,  nearly  two 
inches  wide,  first  crack  at  the  center,  then  crum 
ble  and  finally  fall.  Silence  followed,  as  breath 
lessly  he  waited,  eyes  glued  on  the  hole.  Then 
fingers,  lily  white  in  the  near-darkness,  stole 
through,  and  released  a  bit  of  folded  paper, 
plummet-like,  straight  into  his  lap.  Moving 
cautiously  from  the  proximity  of  the  window  he 
hurriedly  opened  the  note  and  read: 

"Escape  means  death  to  Hawkins  and  you.  Slim's  trip 
to  Jumbo  Point  and  back  will  take  ten  days.  Watch  out 
for  Bull,  he  means  to  kill  you.  Hawkins  safe  for  present. 
Burn  this,  now.  Tarn." 

He  read  the  words  again,  this  time  more 
slowly.  Then  he  removed  the  smoky  chimney 
of  the  lamp,  and  touched  a  corner  of  the  paper 
to  the  flame.  Sudden  light  flooded  the  room 
and  Peter  looked  cautiously  out  at  the  guards. 
But  if  they  had  seen  it,  they  had  no  concern 
over  it,  and  Pete  eagerly  raised  his  eyes  again 
to  the  knothole.  The  fingers  re-appeared  and 
a  second  note  descended.  Again  Pete  leaned 
close  to  the  light  and  read:  "Three  swings 
come  to  light,  two  swings  repeated  three  times, 
Eliot  returning.  One  complete  circle  at  mid 
night,  Hawkins  well,  improving." 

Pete  crammed  the  code  into  his  pocket  and 
stood  face  up  under  the  hole.  Fearing  to  speak 
he  made  the  motion  of  writing  on  his  out 
stretched  palm,  and  almost  immediately,  his 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  97 

answer  came  in  the  shape  of  a  pencil  and  bit  of 
brown  paper.     Hurriedly  he  scribbled  a  note : 

"Judge  John  Stivers, 
Pacific  Club,  San  Francisco. 

Innocent  of  robbery.  Now  in  gangsters' 
hands.  One  move  to  save  me  might  mean 
death.  Get  complete  criminal  record  of  Buller 
Garret,  whose  finger  prints  are  inclosed  on 
card.  Hurry  record  to  Tamarack  Sue,  address 
inclosed. — Peter." 

Quickly  he  folded  the  message  over  the 
cards  from  his  pocket  and  stretched  his  arm 
toward  the  ceiling.  A  foot  of  space  intervened, 
but  he  mounted  the  bed  and  leaned  far  over. 
Then  for  a  moment  the  slender  fingers  of  the 
messenger  met  his.  He  whispered  excitedly, 
"Put  your  address  in;  bring  answer  to  me." 
Pete  started  at  the  icy  coldness  of  the  fingers 
he  held,  as  he  waited  for  a  whispered  answer. 
But  none  came,  and  even  the  fingers  lingered 
for  only  a  moment,  and  Pete  knew  that  she  had 
gone. 


CHAPTER  VII 

x  B  COWARD  a  miniature  valley,  far  up  on 
-*•  the  mountainside,  nestling  between  tall 
tamaracks  that  stood  out  like  sentinels  against 
the  background  of  snow,  Tamarack  Sue,  or 
Tarn,  as  she  was  called,  made  her  way. 

Quickly  she  glided  along,  leaving  scarcely 
a  trace  on  the  frozen  crust  of  wind-swept  snow. 
Accustomed  as  she  was  to  mountain  life  and  the 
rigours  of  winter,  the  strain  of  the  last  few  days 
had  nevertheless  drawn  heavily  upon  her  vital 
ity.  Emerging  at  last  over  the  remaining  steep 
ridge  of  the  trail  she  entered  her  cabin,  and 
closed  the  door  softly  behind  her,  then  sank 
wearily  down  on  a  huge  bearskin  rug  before 
a  smouldering  grate  fire  and  slept.  The  trip 
to  the  prison-house  had  been  a  hard  one,  indeed 
few  men  could  have  made  it  in  the  short  time 
she  had  been  on  the  trail.  Exhausted  now,  she 
slept  heavily  and  far  into  the  morning. 

Arising  at  last,  greatly  refreshed,  but  still 
with  the  haunted,  haggard  look  in  her  eyes, 
she  hastily  prepared  a  meal  for  two  and  opened 
a  door  that  led  into  the  only  other  room  in 
the  house.  In  this  room  on  a  wide,  comfort 
able  bed,  lay  Hawkins.  He  had  drawn  heavily 
upon  the  store  of  strength  that  clean  living  and 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  99 

a  rugged  constitution  gave  him.  His  fever  was 
gone  now,  and  he  could  talk,  if  his  nurse  would 
permit  him.  Instead  she  had  her  finger  to  her 
lips  even  as  she  opened  the  door. 

"Now,  not  a  word,"  she  whispered  softly 
as  she  carried  light  food  to  his  bedside.  "I 
have  lots  and  lots  to  tell  you,  but  first  of  all  I 
must  rush  away  again.  I  must  meet  the  morning 
train,  I  have  important  letters  to  mail.  Eat 
now." 

As  she  carried  the  food  in  spoonfuls  to  his 
lips  she  talked: 

"Buller  will  be  here  today,  and  you  must 
be  very  sick.  If  you  must  talk,  tell  him  I  have 
gone  for  medicine,  that  you  think  I'll  be  back 
too  late  with  it  the  way  you  feel.  Please  don't 
talk  unless  you  have  to.  Your  friend  is  safe;  I 
saw  him  last  night." 

The  food  he  ate  gave  him  strength,  but  the 
sight  of  the  girl  herself,  a  mere  child  she 
seemed,  and  one  more  fitted  for  the  parlor  than 
the  sinister  work  of  the  last  few  days,  was  a 
tonic  that  only  nature,  master  physician,  could 
prescribe. 

With  the  fondness  of  a  doting  grandfather 
Hawkins  followed  her  every  movement.  How 
sweet  and  wholly  feminine  she  seemed  in  her 
simple  woolen  skirt,  close  fitting  sweater  and 
high  leather  shoes!  Hair,  ordinarily  fluffy  and 
light,  struggled  hard  against  the  severe  re- 


100  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

straint  of  braids  that  fell  carelessly  over  her 
shoulders,  as  she  bent  over  him. 

In  twenty-four  hours'  time  she  had  won  a 
complete  victory  over  the  honest  doubts  of  the 
mountaineer.  And  little  wonder !  He  loved  a 
fighter  of  any  kind,  but  here  was  one,  a  mere 
girl,  waging  a  fight  almost  single-handed 
against  gangsters  at  one  end,  and  the  Salmon 
River  Gold  Company  at  the  other. 

She  had  poured  out  her  pathetic  story  as 
soon  after  his  trip  to  her  house  as  possible. 
And  such  a  story!  Until  the  death  of  Dan 
Morgan,  her  father,  she  explained,  life  had 
been  one  glorious  season  after  another  in  the 
mountains  she  loved  so  well.  Moapa  schools 
had  given  her  all  the  education  she  had,  but 
she  was  happy  because  her  brother  Hal,  and 
her  voice  had  choked  at  mention  of  his  name, 
was  attending  a  University  in  the  west;  and 
their  little  mine,  The  Glory  Hole,  could  not 
send  them  both  to  school.  Then,  only  two 
years  before,  trouble  had  come.  Just  when 
they  were  certain  a  big  strike  was  imminent  at 
the  Glory  Hole  Mine,  the  men  quit  working. 
For  some  strange  reason,  it  seemed  impossible 
to  get  more.  When  they  did  manage  to  start 
up,  a  terrible  explosion  had  occurred,  burying 
four  of  the  men  and  most  of  their  tools,  be 
sides  placing  obstacles  in  the  way  of  striking 
the  expected  gold  that  would  require  months  to 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  101 

remove.  All  this  preyed  heavily  on  the  mind 
of  old  Dan,  her  father.  He  could  not  sleep 
nights,  and  he  pecked  away  hopelessly  and  alone 
hy  day  at  the  mass  of  muck  in  the  tunnel,  never 
giving  up  hope.  The  strain  had  lasted  with 
him  nearly  six  months  before  it  ended  in  a  little 
grave  beneath  the  tamaracks.  For  months 
before  the  tragic  end,  Tarn  had  kept  letters  to 
her  father  from  Hal,  letters  pleading  for 
money,  carefully  hidden  away.  Hal  had  been 
unable  to  come  to  the  simple  little  funeral,  and 
his  letters  grew  farther  and  farther  apart. 

Then  J.  D.  Browning  came  into  her  life. 
Tenderly  he  had  sympathized  with  her  in  her 
grief.  Gallantly  he  offered  her  a  contract, 
calling  for  five  thousand  shares  of  stock  in  the 
proposed  Salmon  River  Gold  Co.,  Inc.,  for  her 
mine,  which  was,  as  he  pointed  out,  just  a  junk 
heap.  Even  so,  she  had  urged,  the  mine  was  all 
she  and  her  brother  had  and  she  refused  to 
trade  it  for  the  stock.  At  every  turn  Brown 
ing  continued  to  do  what  he  could  to  help  her, 
until  finally,  simple  girl  that  she  was,  she  had 
gracefully  thanked  him  and  agreed  to  the  deal 
if  her  brother,  who  had  a  half  interest  with  her 
under  the  will  her  father  left,  would  also  sign. 
Weeks  passed  before  Hal  finally  wrote  that 
the  Salmon  River  Gold  Co.  must  be  a  fake, 
as  it  was  almost  wholly  unknown  where  he  had 
made  inquiries  and  anyhow  he  would  have  noth- 


102  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

ing  to  do  with  it.  Then  after  weeks  of  silence, 
Susie  had  received  a  second  letter,  stating 
simply  that  her  brother  had  changed  his  mind 
about  the  Company  and  had  signed  the  con 
tract.  Tarn's  signature  followed  his  and  she 
prepared  to  leave  the  little  cabin  beneath  the 
tamaracks,  to  live  in  Moapa.  When  she  ap 
plied  for  stock  or  money,  however,  she  was 
gently  but  firmly  given  to  understand  by  Hous 
ton,  the  Company  lawyer,  that  no  stock  or 
money  could  be  handed  over  until  all  the  claims 
along  Gulch  Creek  had  been  secured.  The 
blow  had  been  a  shock  to  her,  but  she  knew 
nothing  of  business,  and  so  could  only  wait 
patiently  for  further  developments.  She  wrote 
to  her  brother  for  advice,  but  received  no 
answer.  Then  months  and  months  passed,  un 
til,  realizing  the  danger  of  her  plight,  Houston 
had  obligingly  given  her  work  as  a  clerk  in 
the  Government  Land  Office.  Here  she  had 
heard  rumors  that  had  set  her  thinking,  rumors 
that  became  more  and  more  persistent,  until 
finally  she  sought  out  J.  D.  Browning  himself 
and  demanded  an  explanation. 

Then  it  was  that  Browning,  with  greatly 
affected  emotion,  told  her  that  her  brother, 
needing  money,  had  forged  a  check  and  was  in 
prison.  Grief  and  humiliation  stunned  her,  and 
for  a  time  she  knew  not  which  way  to  turn.  In 
desperation  she  wrote  letter  after  letter  to  her 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  103 

brother,  but  received  only  one  message  in  re 
ply.  A  message  that  stated  simply,  UI  am  in 
nocent,  mining  lawyers  responsible."  After 
this,  she  seemed  to  have  lost  faith  in  mankind, 
she  explained,  and  finally  went  alone  to  the 
cabin  beneath  the  tamaracks,  that  had  once 
been  a  happy  home,  and  prayed  for  guidance. 

There  it  was,  beside  her  father's  cold  grave, 
that  she  had  sworn  vengeance  against  Brown 
ing  and  the  Salmon  River  Gold  Co. 

She  opened  her  campaign  of  vengeance  by 
feigning  complete  submission,  and  begging 
Browning  to  tell  her  what  she  might  do  to  keep 
her  brother's  plight  from  becoming  known. 
Browning  was  quick  to  use  her  and  gradually, 
as  weeks  passed  into  months,  she  worked  into 
his  schemes  and  plans,  until  at  last  she  became 
his  trusted  propagandist  among  the  miners  she 
knew,  obviously  working  for  Browning's  cause. 
It  was  on  this  service  that  she  had  first  met 
Hawkins,  and  while  she  had  met  him  only 
casually,  nevertheless,  so  well  did  she  play  her 
part,  that  Hawkins  set  her  down  at  once  as  a 
clever  agent  of  the  Company. 

Here,  too,  she  had  met  Buller  Garret  and 
his  gang.  Early  in  their  acquaintance  Buller 
had  become  infatuated  with  her,  and  this  com 
bined  with  her  habit  of  eavesdropping  from  the 
attic  of  the  cabin,  made  it  much  easier  for  her 
to  collect  odds  and  ends  of  events  that  ex- 


104  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

plained  many  mysterious  happenings  in  the 
hills.  By  the  merest  chance  she  had  happened 
upon  Buller  the  very  day  his  gang  set  out  to 
ambush  Hawkins  and  Peter.  At  first  she  had 
pleaded  with  him  to  shed  no  blood,  but 
instantly  saw  her  mistake,  for  to  show  the  slight 
est  sympathy  or  concern  for  any  other  man, 
sealed  his  death  warrant  if  Garret  had  the  au 
thority  from  headquarters  to  back  him  up.  She 
had  succeeded,  however,  in  persuading  him  to 
spare  the  life  of  Hawkins  long  enough  to  per 
mit  her  to  find  out  the  true  location  of  the  myth 
ical  fifty  thousand  dollars  of  which  she  had 
overheard  Alguin  and  his  mate  talk. 

So  far  matters  were  yet  well  in  hand,  but 
Tarn  was  becoming  visibly  alarmed  at  the  sullen 
mood  in  which  she  found  Buller  on  their  last 
meeting,  and  she  soon  became  convinced  that 
it  would  require  all  of  the  cunning  she  could 
muster  if  she  was  to  keep  Hawkins  alive  until 
Eliot  returned.  What  would  happen  after  that, 
she  dared  not  think.  Even  at  the  thought  if  it, 
she  shuddered.  She  ended  her  story  in  sobs, 
and  complained  bitterly  against  the  horror  of  it 
all! 

Little  wonder,  then,  that  Hawkins  looked 
upon  her  with  something  akin  to  sheer  wonder, 
as  she  finished  feeding  him  and  made  ready  for 
the  gruelling  trip  to  Moapa.  Before  she  left 
his  bedside,  she  let  him  read  the  note  she  was 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  105 

to  post,  and  seemed  pleased  when  he  nodded  his 
head  in  warm  approval,  as  he  handed  the  envel 
ope  back. 

"God  bless  you,  child,"  he  murmured  fer 
vently,  as  she  tidied  up  the  crude  little  sick 
room  and  closed  the  door  behind  her. 

For  nearly  an  hour  Hawkins  lay  there, 
staring  at  the  ceiling  and  going  over  and  over 
again  the  pathetic  story  of  the  child  who  now 
held  his  life  in  her  hands.  Then  the  door 
opened  again  and  Duller  Garret  entered! 
Triumph,  or  momentary  gloating,  something 
certainly,  was  struggling  for  supremacy  over 
the  sullen  expression  of  fear  in  the  lowering 
face  of  the  gangster.  Hawkins  felt  certain 
Buller  must  have  met  Susie  on  the  trail. 

"Didn't  work,  huh?"  Buller  came  to  the 
point  at  once. 

Hawkins  indicated  mystery  at  the  question 
as  best  he  could  with  his  eyes. 

"Oh,  hell,  you've  been  talkin*  all  right,  I'm 
wise  to  ya,  but  ya  can't  queer  me,"  Buller 
paused  and  seemed  to  dwell  again  on  the  scene 
he  must  have  had  on  the  trail  below.  Then, 
apparently  satisfied,  but  craving  more  to  come, 
he  resumed  his  words.  "Now,  listen  to  me, 
Hawkins,"  he  began,  as  he  pulled  a  chair  close 
to  the  bedside,  "yer  not  quite  done  fer  yet,  even 
if  she  does  think  ya  might  be."  Another  rem 
iniscent  pause,  and  then  he  went  on.  "Ya  know 


106  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

why  we  got  rough  with  ya?  Thought  ya'd 
dig  up  some  old  stuff  on  me,  huh?  Well,  I  was 
wise  all  along.  Those  checks  didn't  figger." 
This,  at  least,  was  strange  talk  to  Hawkins. 
"But  the  other  stuff  did.  J.  D.  wised  me  all 
along  how  ya  was  trying  to  dig  up  some  of  the 
deals  around  here  an'  fasten  'em  onto  me." 
Hawkins  was  learning  things.  Replying  as  best 
he  could  with  his  face  and  eyes,  he  kept  the  man 
talking. 

"Don't  know  how  much  ya  think  ya  know. 
That's  what  I'm  takin'  a  chance  on.  But  I 
just  slipped  up  here  to  buzz  ya  on  one  point, 
whatever  ya  think  ya  know,  fergit  it.  Fergit 
what  happened  in  old  Dan's  mine,  most  of  all." 

Buller's  cunning  eyes  watched  narrowly  the 
effect  of  his  words,  but  Hawkins  acted  well,  and 
Buller  discovered  little  that  either  confirmed  or 
disproved  his  suspicions. 

"There's  nobody  hittin'  this  Tamarack  trail 
but  me  and  Sue,"  he  finally  resumed,  "so  don't 
ya  go  figurin'  on  anybody  from  the  outside. 
If  yer  do,  it  won't  be  healthy  fer  ya,  or  yer 
scissor-bill  friend  down  at  the  shacks.  Don't 
want  any  strangers  to  come  sittin'  in  on  our 
game."  So  saying,  he  walked  leisurely  about  the 
room,  until  his  roaming  glance  fell  on  bits  of 
feminine  apparel,  that  until  now  had  escaped 
him.  His  eyes  brightened,  and  he  sucked  in 
saliva  with  air  in  deep  breaths,  as  he  looked  at 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  107 

them.  A  faded  slip  of  blue,  which  anyone  but 
Bull  would  have  recognized  as  the  remnants  of 
happy  girlhood  days,  caught  his  eye.  Close  by, 
and  partly  covering  it,  hung  a  huge  fur  coat. 
He  dwelled  on  it  for  a  moment,  and  his  face 
darkened.  He  had  seen  the  coat  before,  on 
Peter  Alden.  The  expression  of  a  thug  wield 
ing  a  black-jack  played  on  his  face,  as  he  hurled 
the  offending  garment  from  its  wooden  peg,  and 
kicked  it  to  the  corner  of  the  room.  Would  he 
never  quit  associating  the  two?  He  cursed,  and 
bit  his  lips  as  he  stood  scowling  at  the  crumpled 
coat.  He  turned  again  to  the  faded  blue  dress 
and  continued  his  brooding  silence. 

Hawkins  looked  into  a  new  face  when  Buller 
again  approached  his  bedside.  Murder  was 
written  there !  Not  honest  manly  anger,  but 
venom  inflamed  by  distorted  promptings  of  the 
inner  man,  long  sick. 

Yet  he  said  not  a  word,  as  he  gathered  up 
his  coat  and  cap  and  made  for  the  door. 

Hawkins,  alone  again,  shivered  at  the 
thought  of  his  fellow-prisoner,  in  the  cabin  be 
low. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

"T"YDN'T  tell  me  about  it,  John,  don't  tell  me 
-*^  about  it."  The  feeble  voice  of  Alden, 
Sr.,  could  scarcely  be  heard  against  the  roar  of 
pounding  waves.  "You  saw  his  letter,  so  did  I. 
'Now  you  have  the  truth/  he  wrote.  He's 
dead  in  here,  John,  he's  best  dead  in  here  1" 
Alden  indicated  his' heart,  as  he  tapped  uncer 
tainly,  and  looked,  dry-eyed  far  out  into  the  sea. 

Day  after  day,  Judge  Stivers  had  been  with 
him,  comforting,  reassuring,  trying  desperately 
to  check  the  tide  of  melancholy  bitterness  that 
was  fast  engulfing  his  friend.  Clubs,  theatres, 
hosts  of  friends  at  the  house,  even  golf,  failed 
to  penetrate  the  dry  painful  stare  in  the  eyes 
of  the  once  proud  old  man. 

Today  the  Judge  had  tried  the  beach,  but 
so  far  with  disappointing  results.  He  tried 
hard  to  tell  Alden  how  detectives  were  proceed 
ing  with  their  work.  Though  he  had  little  to  tell 
him,  certainly,  still  he  would  cheerfully  have 
perjured  himself  a  hundred  times  rather  than 
witness  the  constant  grief  his  friend  was  suf 
fering. 

For  over  an  hour  they  sat  thus  in  the  sun; 
neither  speaking,  each  apparently  watching  the 
oily  sea  lions  pop  up  from  foaming  waves,  shake 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  109 

their  heads  in  the  spray  and  glide  back  into  the 
water. 

Alden  spoke :  "Then,  why  doesn't  he  deny 
it,  why  doesn't  he  come  here?"  For  an  instant 
he  had  forgotten  himself,  and  the  rest  of  the 
sentence  slipped  back  on  the  silent  track  of  his 
mind,  where  it  continued  its  circuit,  starting  and 
ending  always  in  the  same  place. 

But  the  few  words  had  given  Judge  Stivers 
the  proof  he  wanted.  Alden,  in  spite  of  him 
self,  still  doubted  his  son's  guilt!  Faint  as  the 
doubt  might  be,  it  was  there.  It  must  be  fed, 
enlarged,  until  it  crowded  out  the  dense  black 
ness  of  utter  abandon  and  despondency  from 
his  heart.  Rapier-like  the  skilled  jurist  thrust 
questions  and  problems  at  his  friend,  none  seem 
ingly  near  the  thought  in  both  of  their  minds, 
yet  all,  nevertheless,  used  for  a  purpose. 

As  they  talked,  clouds  gathered  in  the  sky, 
and  a  sudden  rift  played  sunshine  like  a  spot 
light  on  the  seal  rocks  before  them. 

"See  those  seals,  Peter?"  John's  stick 
pointed  out  the  playful  animals. 

"Yes,   John.      I've   been   watching   them." 

"But,  do  you  notice  that  some  of  them  have 
been  perfectly  still  on  the  rocks  these  two 
hours?" 

"Yes,  some  of  them  have,  I  believe." 

"And  some  of  them  are  constantly  scam 
pering  about?" 


110  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

"Yes,  some  of  them,  yes,  I've  noticed  it." 

"But  do  you  notice  that  the  ones  lying  so 
quietly  there  in  the  sun,  are  mostly  old  ones, 
Peter?" 

Peter's  eyes  had  been  looking  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  seal  rocks,  but  seeing  far,  far  beyond. 
Now  he  stirred  himself  as  though  from  a  dream, 
and  observed  more  closely  the  movements  of 
the  animals  the  Judge  so  insistently  pointed  out. 

"What  was  it  you  asked  me,  John?  Excuse 
me,  but  the  waves  are  so  noisy  here." 

"I  was  wondering  if  you  noticed  that  those 
seals  out  there,  the  ones  that  are  quiet  so  long, 
are  mostly  the  old,  full  grown  ones?" 

"Oh,  yes,  yes,  yes.  So  they  are.  Strange, 
isn't  it?" 

"No,  quite  natural,  I  think.  Now  take  the 
youngsters  there.  There  goes  one  now,  see 
him  flap  his  tail  against  the  old  duffer?  Now 
watch  him." 

Alden  was  beginning  to  take  an  interest  in 
the  antics  of  the  seals. 

"See,"  continued  the  Judge,  "he  deliber 
ately  waited  for  that  big  breaker  before  he 
plunged.  See,  the  old  one  hardly  noticed  him." 
Stivers  watched  his  friend  closely  from  the 
corner  of  his  eyes. 

"You'd  think  he'd  go  in  after  him,  wouldn't 
you?"  old  Alden  mused. 

"Yes,"  Stivers  hesitated,  "one  would  think 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  1 1 1 

so,  but  you  see,  seals  understand  each  other, 
I  guess.  Look,  now  the  youngster  is  gone  for 
good  it  seems.  Yet  the  old  one  has  not  even 
flapped  a  fin!  Only  his  head  in  the  air,  notice 
that?  But  wait  a  minute,  the  youngster  will 
come  back.  It's  all  in  the  game  of  bucking  the 
waves,  I  guess.  Yes,  yes,  there  he  comes,  look, 
right  over  the  top  of  the  rock.  Ha !  Ha !  Good 
for  you,  youngster!"  Even  Alden  had  become 
interested,  as  the  baby  seal  came  playfully  down 
the  shiny  rock,  after  its  long  plunge  in  the  foam 
ing  waves. 

"You  see,  Peter,  the  old  one  is  wise  after 
all;  that  youngster's  got  to  face  the  ocean  alone 
some  day,  and  he  knows  he  must  learn  to  buck 
the  waves  now." 

"Well,  he's  a  thoroughbred,  John,  he  surely 
picked  a  big  one,"  Alden  mused,  with  just  a 
flicker  of  his  old  self  in  his  expression. 

The  eyes  of  the  dear  old  friends  met,  and 
something  passed  between  them,  something 
warm  and  comforting.  Perhaps  it  was  a  silent 
message  from  one  man's  soul  to  another. 

As  they  arose  to  go,  Peter's  arm  tenderly 
encircled  the  slim  waist  of  his  friend.  "John," 
he  said,  "it's  good  to  have  you  around.  Come 
home  with  me,  tonight,  won't  you?" 

"Business  first,  then  pleasure,"  cheerfully 
answered  the  Judge.  "I've  some  business  at 
the  office,  then  I'll  come  out  and  give  you  the 


112  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

worst  lam-basting  you've   had  in  your   entire 
pinochle  career!" 

"Judge,  you're  a  darned  hard  cuss  to  beat, 
guess  that's  why  I  like  you.  But  I'll  teach  you 
yet,  that  you  can't  beat  an  Alden.  The  cards 
will  be  ready  when  you  come,  John.  Good 
bye." 

As  Judge  Stivers  made  his  way  toward  his 
office,  he  breathed  his  first  sigh  of  relief  in  four 
teen  days.  He  entered  his  private  suite  almost 
briskly,  gathered  up  his  mail,  and  sat  running 
it  impatiently  through  his  fingers,  keeping  his 
eyes  the  while  on  the  door  as  though  expecting 
a  visitor. 

Promptly  at  six  the  door  opened,  and  a 
keen  looking  man  of  perhaps  forty,  with  heavy 
head,  a  square  face  and  grey  cropped  mustache, 
that  blended  harmoniously  with  silver-sprinkled 
hair,  entered.  The  frame  and  general  de 
meanor  of  the  man  stamped  him  at  once  as  a 
detective. 

Stivers  fairly  bounced  out  of  his  chair  as 
he  prepared  to  receive  the  expected  report: 
"Well,  out  with  it,  report,  report!"  he  snapped, 
by  way  of  greeting.  For  a  Judge  he  was  un 
commonly  impatient,  but  his  visitor  was  ap 
parently  used  to  him. 

uNot  much  to  report,  Judge,  so  far,"  he 
replied,  quite  cheerfully.  "Can't  find  hide  nor 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  113 

hair  of  young  Alden,  and  I  guess  it's  just  as 
well." 

"What  do  you  mean,  sir,  'just  as  well'?" 

"I  mean,  it  looks  more  every  day  as  though 
he  did  steal  the  money." 

"Bah,  I  thought  you  were  a  detective.  He 
didn't  do  it.  Don't  I  know?  I've  been  facing 
criminals  for  forty  years,  and  I  know  them. 
That  boy  isn't  half  as  much  of  a  thief  as  you 
are!" 

Sherman  Mays,  head  of  Mays'  Detect 
ive  Agency,  winced.  He  had  been  serving 
John  Stivers  for  a  dozen  years  or  more,  and 
he  knew  only  too  well  the  accuracy  of  the  Judge 
in  classifying  men  with  whom  he  came  in  con 
tact. 

"Anyhow,"  the  Judge  continued,  "I've  been 
noticing  lately  that  you're  beginning  to  use  a 
lot  of  new-fangled  methods,  and  forgetting  the 
good  old  hustling  you  used  to  do." 

Mays  balked  at  this.  "Why  did  he  run 
away,  Judge,  and  where  did  he  run  to?"  he 
asked  significantly. 

"How  do  I  know?"  Stivers  snapped. 
"That's  what  I  came  all  the  way  down  here 
for,  to  find  out." 

"And  how  do  you  account  for  the  letter  to 
his  father?"  Mays  continued. 

"Don't  have  to  account  for  it.  You're  on 
the  wrong  track,  Sherman.  Can't  I  knock  it 


114  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

into  your  head  that  he's  innocent?"  The  pep 
pery  old  man  spelled  out  the  word  I-n-n-o-c-e-n-t. 
"I  gave  positive  instructions  that  you're  to  go 
on  the  assumption  that  he's  not  guilty."  In 
his  anger  the  Judge  banged  the  handful  of  un 
opened  letters  on  the  desk  before  him,  half 
of  them  shooting  off  into  Mays'  lap. 

Mays  welcomed  the  opportunity  to  do  most 
anything  rather  than  look  into  the  face  of  the 
irate  Judge.  As  he  slowly  gathered  the  letters 
together  and  handed  them  back,  the  Judge 
commenced  opening  them  in  a  mechanical  sort 
of  way,  apparently  desiring  his  words  to  sink 
in  before  continuing  his  tirade. 

A  special  delivery  letter,  addressed  in  a 
distinctive  feminine  hand,  caught  his  eye. 

With  more  than  ordinary  attention  he  ran 
the  keen  blade  of  a  paper  knife  the  length  of 
it  and  shook  out  the  contents.  What  he  saw 
changed  his  entire  demeanor,  and  when  he 
spoke  again,  even  the  detective  caught  the  poor 
ly  suppressed  excitement  the  letter  had  evident 
ly  created. 

"Now  Sherman,  here  is  something,"  he 
announced.  "This  girl,  or  woman,  writes  from 
Moapa,  Montana;  she  says — well  here,  read  it 
yourself." 

Mays  went  carefully  over  the  letter,  enclo 
sures,  and  even  examined  the  postmarks  on  the 
envelope  before  he  replied : 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  115 

"Well,  what  do  you  think?" 

"That  this  card  will  tell  who  did  the  trick, 
of  course." 

"But,  Judge,  do  you  ^see  this,  'Don't  turn 
a  finger  to  help  him  yet,'  and  this,  'He's  in 
much  graver  danger  than  an  ordinary  burglar, 
which  he  isn't,  would  be,'  Judge,  there's  some 
thing  queer  about  all  this." 

"That's  what  I  think."  The  Judge  stroked 
his  Van  Dyke  meditatively.  "This  signature 
is  young  Alden's  writing  all  right,  no  mistake 
about  that.  He  says,  'Don't  help,'  too.  Funny, 
Sherman,  isn't  it?  Most  of  the  letter  is  written 
by  the  woman,  too." 

"Let's  see  the  name  at  the  bottom  of  that 
letter  again,  Judge.  Thanks."  Sherman  stud 
ied  it  long,  and  carefully.  "Morgan,  Mor 
gan — Susie  Morgan,  Moapa."  He  repeated 
the  words  slowly.  "Seems  right  enough.  Who's 
this  she  talks  about,  Garret,  Buller  Garret? 
That's  probably  a  new  fixture  he's  taken  on, 
whoever  he  is.  So  they  think  he's  got  a 
'record.'  Well,  we  can  find  out  about  that  any 
how." 

"Sherman,  I'm  going  out  to  the  house — 
Alden's.  Can  you  get  a  line  on  this  record,  to 
night?" 

"Certainly,  if  he's  got  one,  I  can." 

"Good,  look  it  over  and  if  it's  out  of  the 
ordinary — no,  no  matter  what  it  is,  'phone  me 


116  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

at  Alden's.  'Phone  me,  anyhow,  but  don't  start 
anything  new  and  drop  whatever  you've  been 
doing,  which  isn't  very  much,  scarcely  anything, 
as  far  as  I  can  see,"  the  Judge  added  signifi 
cantly,  "until  we  can  talk  this  over  again.  You 
have  my  number?  All  right,  at  the  house." 

Detective  Mays  took  the  tell-tale  playing 
card,  handed  back  to  Judge  Stivers  the  letter 
that  came  with  it  and  both  left  the  office. 

"Ought  to  feel  good  at  getting  a  little  day 
light  into  this  thing,"  the  Judge  remarked  to 
Mays  in  the  corridor,  "but  for  some  reason  or 
other,  I'm  beginning  to  feel  worse  about  it. 
Hope  you  find  a  record,  Mays.  Get  it  as  soon 
as  you  can,  won't  you?  Fine!  Good-bye,  till  I 
hear  from  you." 

Judge  Stivers  found  Alden  as  despondent  as 
he  could  ever  remember  seeing  him.  The  cards 
he  had  promised  almost  enthusiastically  when 
they  parted,  were  not  in  evidence,  and  instead 
Alden  sat  motionless,  gazing  into  the  grate  fire, 
hardly  turning  at  all  to  greet  the  Judge.  But 
Stivers  was  becoming  accustomed  to  these 
strange  spells,  and  made  no  comment,  as  he 
drew  his  chair  alongside,  and  gazed  long  into 
the  fire  before  he  spoke.  A  sudden  burst  of 
flame  broke  the  spell: 

"Fire     feels     comfortable     these     nights, 
Peter." 

"Yes,  John,  very  comfortable." 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  117 

"You're  burning  eucalyptus  logs,  aren't 
you?" 

"I  believe  they  are,  yes,  they  are  eucalyp 
tus." 

"When  they  blaze  that  way,  Peter,  they 
throw  out  a  perfume,  don't  they?" 

"A  perfume,  yes.  Yes,  they  throw  out  a 
perfume." 

"But  not  much  heat,  when  they  blaze." 

"You're  comfortable,  though,  John?" 
Peter  almost  eagerly  made  to  ring  a  bell. 

"Oh,  yes,  yes,  quite,  thank  you,  don't  ring. 
I  was  just  noting  how  the  logs  burned,  that  is 
all." 

"Yes,  John,  the  logs." 

"I  was  just  saying,  when  they  flame,  they 
throw  out  perfume,  but  not  so  much  heat." 

"But  all  logs  are  that  way,  aren't  they, 
John?" 

"Yes,  the  heat  is  there,  though,  but  it's 
when  they're  reduced  to  solid  coals  that  you 
feel  it  most." 

"I  often  sit  here,  John,  long  after  the  flames 
are  gone." 

"Even  the  coals  that  are  covered  with  dead 
grey  ashes  are  hot  inside,  aren't  they,  Peter?" 

"Yes,  very  hot;  hardwood  always  makes 
hot  logs." 

"They  must  be,  Peter,  or  the  new  ones  you 


118  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

throw  on  would  never  burn,  they  could  never 
get  started  without  them." 

The  butler  approached  and  threw  some  logs 
on  the  fire. 

Alden  shifted  in  his  chair. 

"You  know,  John,  I've  had  an  idea  lately 
that  you  think  I'm  old.  Tomorrow  I  believe 
I'm  going  to  take  you  out  and  put  you  in  your 
proper  place.  What  do  you  say  to  a  little 
golf?" 

"Maybe  I  don't  think  you're  getting  old, 
Peter,  but  your  memory  is  certainly  getting 
tired,  or  something.  Here  I  came  over  to  beat 
you  at  a  game  of  pinochle." 

"That's  right,  John,  you're  right,  well, 
that's  one  on  me.  I  say,"  calling  the  butler, 
"the  cards."  Then  turning  again  to  the  Judge  : 
"Well,  we'll  settle  this  card  game  right  off,  in 
short  order." 

Three  hours  later  they  were  still  playing. 
The  Judge  was  becoming  nervous.  Twice  he 
forgot  to  draw  cards. 

"John,  you'd  think  that  telephone  was  re 
sponsible  for  my  walloping  you.  Leave  it 
alone.  The  way  you  are  looking  at  it  .  .  ." 

The  butler  announced  a  gentleman  to  see 
Judge  Stivers. 

"Show  him  in  here."  Alden  interrupted 
before  Stivers  could  arise  from  the  table. 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  119 

"Don't  get  up,  John,  bring  your  friend  right 
here." 

The  Judge  started  to  protest,  but  was  in 
terrupted  by  the  sudden  appearance  of  Detec 
tive  Mays.  Alden  recognized  the  man,  and 
instantly  his  pleasant  humor  of  the  past  few 
hours  departed,  and  left  him  struggling  with 
emotion,  sorely  wounded  pride  and  undecided 
will.  He  hesitated  a  moment,  then  said  slowly: 

"I'll  be  in  the  library  when  you  are  through, 
John."  Then,  without  a  word  or  further 
glance  at  the  detective,  he  left  the  room. 

Stivers  turned  quickly  to  Mays  and  asked, 
"Did  you  get  it?" 

"Yes,  I  got  it.    Fine  bird!" 
"Let's  see  it." 

Stivers  unrolled  a  bundle  of  papers  and 
read: 

"James  Hogan,  alias  Jimmie  Duffy,  alias  Buller  Gar 
ret,  age  38,  weight  140  pounds,  height  five  feet  five 
inches,  hair  and  eyes  black,  skin  yellow,  slightly  pock 
marked,  escaped  from  San  Quention  19....  while  serving 

life    term    for    murder.      Wanted    for    murder    of   . 

Member  of  famous  gang  of  crooks  and  gunmen.  Last 
seen  near  Maysville,  Cal.,  heading  east,  desperate 
character,  will  stop  at  nothing." 

"No  mistake  about  all  this?"  Stivers  tapped 
the  paper  with  his  forefinger. 

"Absolutely  none,  finger-prints  tallied  per 
fectly.  Chief  tells  me  he's  one  of  the  worst 
gangsters  San  Francisco's  ever  had." 


120  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

"Hum,  let's  read  those  letters  again." 

The  two  men  took  seats  and  carefully  went 
over  the  messages  Tarn,  or  Susie  Morgan,  as 
she  signed  her  name,  had  sent.  At  the  end  of 
an  hour,  the  conference  showed  signs  of  break 
ing  up,  but  not  until  Judge  Stivers  had  finished 
writing  a  letter. 

"This  will  give  them  enough  to  call  out  the 
State  Militia,  if  necessary,"  he  remarked,  as  he 
handed  the  sheets  to  Mays.  "Post  this 
at  once.  Better  stop  all  investigations  until  we 
get  a  reply;  both  of  them  have  warned  us  to  do 
nothing  yet,  you  know,  and  we'd  better  go 
easy." 

"Very  well,  sir."  So  saying,  Mays  took  the 
letter  and  departed. 

Stivers  joined  Alden  in  the  library.  "You 
know,  Peter,"  he  said,  as  though  forming  a  plan 
aloud,  which  was  meant  only  for  his  own  mind, 
"I  believe  a  brisker  climate,  snappier  air,  would 
do  you  good." 

"Snappier  air?"  Alden  fairly  shouted, 
"I'm  freezing  now;  thought  you  fellows  never 
would  leave  that  fire !" 

"That's  because  your  blood's  thin,  Peter, 
that's  all.  Now  I'm  called  away  on  some  per 
sonal  business  to  Montana,"  he  emphasized  the 
"personal"  with  as  significant  a  look  as  possi- 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  121 

ble,  then  continued.   "Don't  know  when  I'll  go, 
but  if  I  do,  you've  got  to  come  along." 

"Well,"  old  Alden  reflected  testily,  "guess 
I  am  seeing  too  much  of  the  old  things.  I'll 
see,  I'll  think  it  over." 


CHAPTER  IX 

"  .  .  .  And  that's  all  I  have,  all  I  have 
after  these  many  months.  Isn't  it  discoura 
ging,  Mr.  Hawkins?"  The  latter,  leaning  back 
against  soft  pillows,  took  little  slips  of  paper, 
one  at  a  time,  from  Tarn's  hand,  and  read  each 
one  with  care,  as  she  explained  its  meaning. 

The  slips  of  paper  represented  all  of  the 
notes,  dates  and  facts  Susie  had  been  able  to 
collect  in  waging  her  lone  battle  of  vengeance 
against  the  Salmon  River  Gold  Co.,  Inc. 

"I'm  afraid  we're  too  late,  little  girl,  we're 
much  too  late.  You  should  have  come  to  me, 
or  to  someone,  months  ago,"  was  Hawkins 
only  comment  as  he  finished  reading. 

"Oh,  I  wanted  to,  so  badly,  but  whom  could 
I  trust?  Everyone  seemed  in  with  them!  And 
then  my  poor  brother !  I  couldn't  let  anyone 
here  know  of  him!  But  I  did  intend  getting 
help,  after  I  had  done  all  I  could.  You  see,  I 
knew  so  little  of  business,  Mr.  Hawkins.  But 
tell  me,  why  am  I  too  late?"  Yet,  even  as  she 
spoke,  Tarn  knew  that  the  task  she  had  under 
taken  was  far  too  great,  and  that  Hawkins  was 
right  after  all. 

"You've  signed  away  your  mine,  Tarn,  and 
so  have  the  other  small  placer  claim  holders 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  123 

along  both  sides  of  the  creek;  Browning  owns 
Salmon  Tooth  Pass,  so  even  if  you  had  your 
claims  restored,  how  could  you  come  in  and 
out?  They  are  too  strong,  Tarn,  too  strong. 
Why,  they  wanted  my  Dead  Horse  Mine.  I 
held  out,  and  look  what  they've  done  to  me !" 
In  spite  of  his  emaciated  face  his  jaw  muscles 
bulged  as  he  contemplated  on  this  last  remark. 

"But  if  I  can  prove  they  really  stole  those 
claims  from  dozens  of  miners,  and  that  they 
don't  intend  developing  them,  that  they  only 
want  to  sell  stock,  won't  they  be  compelled  to 
give  them  back?" 

'Trove  it!"  Hawkins  winced  with  pain  as 
he  snorted  the  words.  "How?  Every  office 
is  filled  with  Company  men !  Even  the  Land 
office  is  bulging  with  them;  what  chance  have 
you?" 

"But  the  others!  They  will  all  find  out 
that  their  contracts  are  valueless;  surely  they 
will  rise  up  and  demand  their  rights,"  Tarn 
protested. 

"Yes,  some  of  them  will,  Tarn,  some  of 
them;  but  the  miners  aren't  together.  Spies 
are  everywhere!  Where  is  Jonas?  Here, 
look!"  Hawkins  selected  a  yellow  slip,  Tarn's 
own  note.  "Here  you  are,  'disappeared,'  it 
reads,  that's  what  happend  to  one  miner  that 
talked  too  much.  Here's  another,  Crabtree, 
old  Silas  Crabtree.  Made  a  complaint  on  Mon- 


124  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

day,  threatened  action,  disappeared  on  the  fol 
lowing  Wednesday.  Something  weird  and  mys 
terious  about  it,  Tarn.  Don't  you  see  how  they 
work?  The  miners  haven't  a  chance,  not  a 
chance !"  Hawkins  clenched  his  fist  and 
groaned  in  evident  pain. 

"Then  you  mean,"  Tarn  asked  testily,  "that 
we  will  all  lose  our  property,  all  of  us,  who 
have  worked  so  hard  and  so  long?" 

"I'm  afraid  so,  Tarn,  I'm  beginning  to  think 
you  will.  I've  tried  to  warn  them  all,  but  they 
called  me  an  old  gopher,  and  laughed  at  my 
advice.  I  thought  I  would  strike  something  at 
the  Dead  Horse,  and  fight  the  Company 
back,  but  that's  over,  too,  I  guess." 

"But  you  said  you  had  a  trick  to  turn,  or 
something;  surely  you  know  some  way  it  can 
be  stopped;  it  can't  be  all  lost!  Oh,  that  would 
be  too  terrible !  All  these  people,  all  of  them 
cheated  and  ruined,  it  can't  be !  It  must  be 
stopped!"  Susie's  eyes  sparkled  with  anger  as 
she  spoke. 

"There's  lots  we  might  do,  if  I  weren't 
here,  but  there's  no  time  for  all  this  now,  child. 
It's  seven  days  already  since  Slim  Eliot  started 
for  Jumbo  Point.  He'll  be  crossing  the  ridge 
any  day  now,  and  when  he  comes,"  a  worried 
frown  came  over  Hawkins'  face,  "and  when 
he  comes,  even  you,  Tarn,  won't  be  able  to  hold 
Duller  Garret  back." 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  125 

Tamarack  Sue  shuddered  as  she  answered: 
"I  never  saw  him  so  terrible  as  he  looked  today, 
Mr.  Hawkins.  I  thought  he  must  have  known 
of  our  signals,  he  questioned  me  so  closely.  I 
wonder  how  Mr.  Alden  is?  I've  been  afraid 
to  go  near  the  house  again;  the  snow  has  been 
so  soft,  that  my  tracks  would  surely  show,  but 
he  has  signaled  back  every  night!  He's  alive 
at  least.  But  what  will  happen  when  Eliot 
returns?  And  he  may  return  in  the  night!  We 
will  never  know!  Oh,  Mr.  Hawkins,  please 
let  me  get  the  sheriff  and  stop  it  all !  He  can 
at  least  delay  things;  give  us  a  chance  .  .  ." 

"That's  just  what  you  shouldn't  do," 
Hawkins  replied  firmly,  "just  as  well  ask  J.  D. 
himself  to  help  you.  They  would  arrest  Pete 
for  the  robbery  and  for  my  murder.  You're 
forgetting  these,  little  girl."  Hawkins  tapped 
significantly  at  the  slips  of  paper  in  his  hand. 
"Tell  the  sheriff  and  it  will  mean  just  one  more 
of  these,  that's  all." 

"But  what  can  we  do?  We  must  do  some 
thing,"  Tarn  protested,  "I  can't  sit  here  and 
see  you  both  murdered!"  A  horrified  look 
came  into  her  eyes.  "It  can't  mean  that,  Mr. 
Hawkins,  have  we  no  way  of  preventing  it? 
Oh,  if  Buller  wasn't  so  awfully  suspicious,  if 
he'd  only  let  me,  I'd— I'd— Oh,  Mr.  Hawkins, 
we  must  stop  this  thing!"  Tears  rolled  down 


126  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

her  cheeks  as  she  buried  her  head  in  her  arms 
and  sobbed. 

Thoroughly  aroused,  Hawkins  tried  to  calm 
her.  "But  he  isn't  here  yet.  You  got  a  signal, 
tonight?  Well,  Eliot  won't  try  to  pass  the 
ridge  at  night;  we  have  one  more  day,  possibly 
two.  Many  things  can  happen  in  a  day.  The 
letter  from  San  Francisco !  On  the  way  six  days 
now;  it  should  be  here  any  time.  Come,  Tarn, 
be  brave,  something  will  happen." 

uBut  what  can  the  letter  do?"  Tarn  asked 
through  sobs. 

"I  don't  know,  but  it  will  do  something." 

"If  it  only  could,"  Tarn  pulled  herself  up 
with  an  effort,  and  dried  her  tears.  "I'll  go 
again  to  Moapa  in  the  morning,  but  I'm  so 
afraid  to  leave  you,  Mr.  Hawkins.  If  Eliot 
should  come  while  I'm  gone,  then  Buller  will 
find  out,  and  he'll  be  terrible,  just  terrible;  I 
think  sometimes  the  man  is  insane." 

"You  pack  a  gun?"  Hawkins  asked  anx 
iously,  ignoring  the  danger  he  was  soon  to  face, 
and  thinking  only  of  the  plucky  girl  beside  him. 

"Always,"  she  answered,  "and  I  thought 
yesterday,  I  would  use  it.  I  carry  it  here." 
Tarn  indicated  a  little  pocket  over  her  hip,  con 
cealed  by  a  fold  in  her  sweater.  "He  looked  at 
me  so  strangely,  when  he  asked  if  you  were 
better." 

"Don't  kill,  Tarn,  until  you  have  to;  these 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  127 

things  are  worrying  your  mind  beyond  reason. 
But  don't  let  the  grieving  and  worry  get  you, 
Tarn,  it  doesn't  pay.  I've  been  in  these  hills 
twenty  years  and  more;  seen  the  old  Alder 
Gulch  rush  when  men  were  killed  by  their  own 
brothers,  all  gold  mad.  Yes,  and  I've  seen 
men  crazy  with  liquor,  killin'  for  sport  when 
Moapa  was  only  an  Indian  camp.  But  the 
gold-rush  days  ended.  So  did  the  wild  days  in 
the  camp.  Those  times  are  all  gone  now,  Tarn, 
an'  we're  having  a  new  kind  of  war.  Bad  as 
it  was,  a  man  could  fight  his  own  battles  then. 
But  it's  different  now.  They  brought  law  in 
then  to  stop  murder  and  thieving;  now  they  use 
it  to  kill  and  steal  in  lots  of  ways  I'm  not  used 
to.  No,  Tarn,  guess  I  haven't  got  a  trick  to 
turn,  after  all.  They're  fighting  way  over  my 
head  now.  We  haven't  a  chance,  not  a  chance. 
There's  you,  ought  to  be  making  a  home  warm 
and  bright  for  some  good  man,  yet,  here  you 
are,  half  crazy  and  fighting  wild,  and  still 
you're  not  getting  anywhere.  Why  don't  you 
quit  it  all,  and  go  away  from  here?  Let  the 
past  go,  Tarn,  let  it  go.  It  hurts,  I  know,  but 
it's  really  past  now,  you  see,  and  it  can't  come 
back.  The  old  days  are  gone,  and  you  belong 
to  them,  Tarn.  You  don't  fit  now,  and  there's 
no  use  of  you  throwing  yourself  away."  The 
long  speech  tired  the  old  man  visibly,  but  the 


128  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

fervor  of  his  words  held  Tarn  fascinated  un 
til  he  had  finished. 

Then  she  replied  in  a  strange,  thin  voice. 
"Yes,  Mr.  Hawkins,  I  do  belong  to  the  old 
days,  just  like  you,  but  7  can  no  more  leave  the 
fight  than  you.  Listen !  Hear  the  wind  moan 
ing  through  the  tamaracks — the  tamaracks 
over  father's  grave?  Every  night  they  speak 
to  me,  urge  me  on  and  on !  No,  there  is  noth 
ing  else  for  me,  nothing  else  in  life."  Susie 
hesitated  and  a  shudder  came  over  her.  "What 
must  decent  folks  think  of  me?  Living  with 
gangsters,  one  of  them,  for  all  people  know. 
Even  Mr.  Alden,  the  first  time  he  saw  me, 
talked  of — of — the  Barbary  Coast,  and  I  know 
what  he  meant!  How  I  hated  him  for  it!" 
Her  little  hands  clenched  in  anger.  "But,  I 
can't  let  him  die,  because  he's  so  innocent  of 
everything.  But  it  doesn't  matter  what  he, 
or  anyone  else  thinks  of  me  now,  Mr.  Hawkins. 
I'm  going  to  answer  the  tamaracks,  and  then, 
when  it's  all  over  and  my  work  is  done,  I'll  go 
back  to  the  past.  Don't  you  see,  Mr.  Hawkins, 
I  can't  leave  the  fight,  any  more  than  you 
can?" 

"Yes,  girl,  I  understand,  I  understand.  But 
you're  all  worked  up  now,  we've  both  talked 
too  long.  You've  got  to  signal  yet  and  get 
some  sleep.  The  fight  seems  to  be  in  the  dark, 
but  it  might  be  a  short  one,  Tarn,  so  better  get 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  129 

your  rest,  while  you  can.  Good  night,  now,  and 
God  bless  you !" 

Down  below  in  the  prison  house,  Pete 
gazed  fixedly  out  into  the  night.  Hour  after 
hour  the  dreary  week  had  dragged  by,  with 
nothing  to  relieve  the  severe  tension  but  the 
weird  swing  of  the  lamp  on  the  mountain  side 
at  midnight. 

Duller  Garret  seemed  obsessed.  Forced  by 
his  own  suspicions  and  lust,  he  himself  was  com 
pelled  to  spend  weary  hours,  sometimes  alone, 
in  the  house.  The  silence  and  monotony  of  the 
thing  made  him  wretched  to  the  point  of  vio 
lence.  Alguin  and  his  companions,  too,  sulked 
in  silence  or  played  cards  alone.  Even  Pete, 
who  heard  nothing,  was  plainly  aware  that  the 
mission  of  Slim  Eliot  was  working  as  a  wedge 
between  the  three.  He  had  little  hope  from 
this,  however,  as  he  knew  only  too  well  the  re 
port  Slim  Eliot  would  bring.  He  had  expected 
more  visits  from  Susie,  but  the  knot  hole  in  the 
ceiling  remained  black  and  dead.  The  message 
to  Judge  Stivers  was  still  the  all-important 
thing;  yet  he  had  no  knowledge  of  its  fate.  He 
was  certain  the  Judge  would  reply,  if  he  had 
received  the  letter !  The  suspense  was  madden 
ing. 

A  frenzied  desire  to  smash  the  window  and 
rush  the  guards  without  had  seized  him  with 
ever  increasing  frequency  as  the  return  of 


130  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

Eliot  drew  near,  and  but  for  the  certain  result 
such  a  dash  for  liberty  would  have  had  on 
Hawkins  he  would  have  tried  it.  As  it  was, 
he  could  only  sit  and  think.  New  forms  had 
appeared  at  times  about  the  table  by  the  fire 
place,  and  from  these  strangers  he  had  over 
heard  enough  to  piece  together  fragments 
here  and  there  of  the  quiet  undercurrent  of 
intrigue  and  plotting  that  formed  the  basis  of 
the  warfare  between  the  miners  and  the  Com 
pany.  But  it  was  mostly  a  recital  of  victories 
for  the  latter;  no  one  had  seemed  even  slightly 
concerned  over  the  efforts  of  the  miners,  men 
usually  referred  to  as  "gophers." 

On  this  night,  while  Tarn  and  Brud 
Hawkins  were  talking  in  the  little  cabin  on  the 
mountain  side,  Buller,  for  the  first  time  in  days, 
entered  Pete's  room  and  signified  a  desire  to 
say  something. 

"Slim  Eliot's  back,"  he  smirked  as  soon  as 
he  entered  the  room.  But  somehow  he  said  it 
badly,  and  Pete  knew  he  was  bluffing. 

"Then  I  can  go  in  the  morning,"  he 
answered,  with  well  feigned  pleasure. 

"Huh,  still  thinking  thataway,  are  ya? 
Well,  forget  it,  he  ain't  back.  But  he  will  be; 
he's  shakin'  up  in  the  pass  tonight,  he'll  be  here 
tomorrow." 

"Then  I'll  be  leaving  tomorrow,  just  the 
same,"  Pete  returned  confidently. 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  131 

Duller  ignored  the  answer,  and  continued 
his  smirking  words. 

"You're  packin'  around  too  much  in  yer 
head,  that's  what  I  came  in  to  tell  ya,  and  'tain't 
healthy,  that's  what.  I  blowed  in  here  fer  to 
buzz  ya  about  knowin'  too  much." 

"Well,  shoot,"  Pete  still  out-looked  his 
visitor. 

"How  long  have  ya  been  knowin'  the  old 
Gopher?"  Bull  threw  a  snaky  finger  and 
glanced  in  the  direction  of  the  mountain  side. 
"How  long  have  ya  two  been  .  .  Well, 
knock  me  for  a  ..."  Buller  stood  as 
though  transfixed,  as  he  looked  out  the  window. 
Pete  followed  his  gaze  and  saw  the  signal  light 
completing  a  circle !  For  a  moment  neither 
spoke.  Then  with  an  expression  of  sudden 
understanding,  Buller's  eyes  rested  on  Pete's 
lamp,  standing  directly  in  front  of  his  window. 

Instantly,  as  their  eyes  met,  Pete's  hands 
sought  the  back  of  a  chair  and  Buller's  the  guns 
that  hung  by  his  side.  But  before  a  move  could 
be  made,  Alguin  with  a  sudden  jerk  threw  open 
the  door  and  stood  apparently  amazed  at  the 
posture  of  the  two  threatening  figures.  Buller 
wheeled  on  him. 

"Now,  Al,  mebbe,  you'll  let  me  finish  this 
job.  Look  up  yonder!" 

The  three  men  looked  out  of  the  window, 
where  the  light  was  still  circling.  Pete  knew 


132  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

it  would  continue  until  he  answered  back,  and 
he  tried  desperately  to  think  of  a  ruse  that 
would  permit  his  doing  so.  But  Alguin,  un 
wittingly,  or  purposely,  did  it  for  him,  when  he 
stepped  between  the  light  and  the  window. 
Instantly  the  signaling  on  the  hill  stopped. 

Buller  jerked  his  head  toward  the  door. 
"C'mon,"  he  growled. 

The  two  men,  not  once  glancing  at  their 
prisoner,  shut  the  door  and  locked  it  behind 
them  and  almost  instantly  thereafter  the  guards 
outside  began  nailing  huge  boards  across 
the  window. 

Completely  bewildered  and  helpless  at  the 
turn  of  events,  Pete  slumped  down  on  his  bed 
and  waited.  At  length,  hours  afterward,  it 
seemed,  faint  streaks  of  light  stole  through  the 
narrow  cracks  of  the  window  boards,  telling 
him  that  it  was  again  morning.  He  had  no 
doubt  that  already  men  were  on  the  way  to 
Hawkins,  agents  of  death  in  all  probability, 
and  that  other  men  were  on  their  way  to 
Moapa,  sent  there  to  bring  the  Sheriff  and  his 
posse,  also  messengers  of  death,  if  Buller's 
nefarious  scheme  worked  out. 

Horrible  as  it  was,  Pete  could  not  but  feel 
a  sense  of  relief.  Something  would  happen 
soon,  at  any  rate,  and  anything  was  better  than 
sitting  there  day  after  day.  Yet  his  heart  fairly 
quivered  with  suppressed  emotion  as  he  pic- 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  133 

tured  Hawkins,  friend  of  a  day,  nevertheless 
a  man  he  would  now  face  armed  guards  to  save 
if  he  could!  He  thought  of  the  girl,  too,  and 
his  brows  knitted.  He  had  come  to  see  more 
than  the  signal,  when  the  light  on  the  mountain 
side  whirled  at  midnight.  These,  too,  were 
gone  now,  he  mused. 

In  spite  of  every  effort,  all  of  his  plans 
harked  back  to  the  playing  cards,  and  his  note 
to  Judge  Stivers.  He  must  make  new  plans 
now !  Yet  the  thought  no  sooner  entered  his 
mind  than  he  dismissed  it  as  hopeless.  New 
plans !  He  looked  at  his  hands  and  saw  them, 
still  soft  and  whiter  than  ever.  He  stroked  his 
face,  and  he  suddenly  realized  that  he  had  a 
beard,  fully  half  an  inch  of  it!  His  hair,  too, 
was  long,  and  his  scalp  itched.  The  entire 
scheme  of  things  oppressed  him.  Even  the 
thought  of  his  father  failed  to  stir  his  senses 
to  action.  Like  a  prisoner  sentenced  to  death, 
he  sat  there  with  his  back  to  the  boarded  win 
dow,  and  his  eyes  on  the  bolted  door.  For 
hours  no  one  stirred  and  he  had  no  idea  how 
much  of  the  day  was  gone.  Yet,  in  spite  of  it 
all,  he  felt  ravenously  hungry.  Hour  after 
hour  he  sat  there,  unable  to  do  more  than  look 
at  the  door,  until  at  last  the  meagre  light  that 
played  through  the  chink  in  the  window  dwin 
dled  to  faint  weak  streaks.  Then  some  one 
fumbled  at  the  door,  and  a  figure,  strange  to 


134  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

Pete,  entered,  left  a  dirty  pan  of  greasy  food, 
a  bowl  of  coffee,  and  left  the  room  without  a 
word. 

The  food,  such  as  it  was,  appeased  his 
hunger,  and  Pete  ate  ravenously.  "They're 
waiting  for  Eliot,  that  must  be  it,"  he  told  him 
self  aloud  between  gulps  of  coffee.  For  the 
hundredth  time  since  his  imprisonment,  he 
studied  the  room  for  an  avenue  of  escape. 
Again  his  eyes  sought  the  window,  but  it  was 
not  made  to  open,  and  he  feared  the  noise  of 
breaking  glass.  Then,  too,  the  boards  were 
there  now.  Yet  he  might,  he  thought,  by  plac 
ing  his  eye  close  to  the  crack  between  them, 
watch  for  the  signal  once  more.  A  forlorn 
hope  !  There  would  be  no  more  signals,  of  that 
he  felt  certain.  Again  his  eyes  wandered  to 
ward  the  knot  hole  above  his  head.  An  idea 
struck  him  and  he  fumbled  in  his  pocket  for 
the  stub  of  pencil  Susie  had  given  him.  He  still 
had  the  signal  code  in  his  pocket,  and  now  he 
wrote  hurriedly  on  the  back  of  it: 

"Dear  Hawkins  and  Susie: 

"Somehow  I  know  you'e  together.  Don't  bother 
about  me,  I'll  get  along,  a  way  will  come.  If  I  never 
see  you  again  always  remember  I  am  grateful  for  your 
kindness,  and  sorry  if  I  have  been  in  any  way  the  cause 
of  the  terrible  trouble  we  are  all  in.  If  you  have  a 
chance,  and  if  you  know  I  am  dead,  tell  my  father,  San 
Francisco,  that  his  boy  was  innocent  of  everything  but 
a  desire  to  be  a  worthy  son.  Good-bye. 

"Peter  Alden,  Jr." 

Then  he  tucked  the  note  carefully  through 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  135 

the  hole,  letting  his  fingers  linger  there  awhile, 
before  once  more  resuming  his  tiresome  chair, 
where  he  sat  and  waited  for  the  coming  of  the 
Sheriff.  It  was  dark  in  the  room  and  his  lamp 
had  not  been  removed,  he  noticed,  but  he  feared 
to  light  it  lest  the  meagre  supply  of  oil  become 
exhausted  before  night.  In  spite  of  him 
self,  he  still  hoped  that  the  cover  of  darkness 
would  bring  to  him  some  word  from  the  out 
side. 

The  house  was  strangely  still,  yet  he  knew 
he  was  not  alone,  for  the  partition  between  his 
room  and  the  one  in  which  the  fire  burned  felt 
warm,  and  occasionally  he  heard  logs  being 
thrown  on  the  fire  without.  Still  no  one  came 
near  him,  and  no  one  spoke,  at  least  not  loudly 
enough  for  him  to  hear. 

Little  flashes  of  red  light  from  the  guards' 
fire  began  to  replace  the  sombre  slits  of  twilight 
through  the  boards  on  the  window,  when  at  last 
he  heard  voices,  loud,  unrestrained,  from  men 
seemingly  in  a  hurry. 

Pete  had  played  football  in  college,  and 
remembered  well  the  feeling  that  gripped  him 
when  the  kick-off  whistle  blew.  He  had  that 
feeling  now,  as  he  listened  to  the  voices. 

"Sheriff's  coming  from  Moapa  tonight, 
'ell  be  here  'bout  twelve,  I  guess,"  some  one 
was  saying.  The  same  voice  continued: 


136  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

"Eliot,  you  got  to  do  a  lot  more  hikin'  yet, 
tonight." 

Then  another  voice  broke  in  as  though 
replying  to  Eliot,  whose  words  Pete  had  not 
heard.  "No,"  it  said,  "to  hell  with  the  fifty 
thousand  dollars,  knew  that  was  bunk.  But  the 
bird  in  here  that  give  you  the  bum  steer  is  worth 
five  thousand  berries,  and  we're  gettin'  in  our 
claims  afore  they  string  'im." 

Before  the  speaker  finished,  Pete  recog 
nized  the  voice;  it  was  little  Alguin  talking. 

"Hawkins  bumped,  then?"  some  one  asked. 

"Sure,  he's  bumped,"  Alguin  grunted. 
"Bull's  been  gone  four  hours  already,  ought  to 
be  back  now.  Anytime  Bull  goes  a  bumpin' 
he's  sure  fire.  You  looked  everywhere  for  the 
fifty,  Eliot,  no  signs  anywhere?" 

Someone  stamped  loudly  on  the  door  sill, 
and  Pete  could  not  get  the  answer.  The  man 
stamping  was  apparently  a  newcomer,  and  both 
men  within  greeted  him. 

"Hello,  Bull,  come  in,"  they  called  together. 

Pete  heard  chairs  dragged  across  the  room, 
but  the  voices  were  close  together  and  were 
much  subdued.  He  tiptoed  quietly  toward  the 
door  to  listen.  Half-way  across  the  room  he 
was  stopped  short  by  the  movement  of  some 
thing  dragging  across  the  rough  boards  above 
his  head.  With  a  rapid  stride  he  made  for  the 
lamp  and  struck  a  match.  Even  before  the 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  137 

sudden  light  flared  up  his  eyes  sought  the  knot 
hole.  There  a  long  folded  envelope,  held  tightly 
between  white  fingers,  showed  in  relief  against 
the  ceiling.  While  Pete  hesitated  a  moment 
between  lighting  the  lamp  and  reaching  for 
the  message,  the  match  flickered  and  died  in  his 
hand.  Without  lighting  another,  he  made  a 
bound  to  the  bed,  and  swept  the  ceiling  with  his 
hand.  With  heart  pounding  like  a  trip  hammer, 
his  arm  circled  about  wildly  for  a  moment  that 
seemed  like  an  hour,  before  his  hand  closed 
hungrily  about  the  slender  fingers.  A  second 
might  mean  discovery,  yet  his  hand  lingered, 
lingered  while  he  sent  his  mute  message  of 
heart-felt  appreciation  to  the  messenger.  A 
moment  there,  a  heavy  sigh,  and  the  hands 
parted.  Pete  hardly  had  the  lamp  burning 
before  the  rustle  above  died  away,  and  he 
knew  Tam  was  gone. 

With  frantic  haste  he  examined  the  two 
missives  in  his  hand,  a  note  and  an  envelope, 
unopened.  He  opened  the  note  first  and  read. 

"They've   done   away  with  him,   I'm  going,  too.     In 
haste.  Tam." 

With  a  pang  of  remorse  that  entirely  shat 
tered  his  growing  enthusiasm  he  opened  the 
long  letter  and  withdrew  two  pictures,  and  a 
printed  slip.  Heavy  black  figures,  130-666, 
first  caught  his  eye;  then  the  pictures,  both 


138  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

of  James  Hogan,  alias  Buller  Garret,  so  the 
legend  at  the  bottom  ran.  Turning  again  to 
the  printed  slip  he  found  it  contained  a  list  of 
crimes,  which  he  carefully  studied  before  shov 
ing  the  papers  into  his  pocket. 

Tears  dimmed  his  eyes  as  he  read  and  re 
read  the  note,  "I'm  going,  too,"  what  could 
that  mean?  Pete's  face  went  cold.  "They've 
done  away  with  him."  He  turned  the  wick  in 
the  lamp  higher,  for  the  note  seemed  smeared. 
He  held  it  closer  to  the  light.  "They've,"  he 
commenced  reading  aloud;  ah!  she  had  first 
written  "not,"  then  erased  it.  He  looked  more 
closely.  No !  She  had  not  erased  it  entirely ! 
A  rush  of  sudden  hope  came  over  him. 
"They've  not  done  away  with  him,"  he  read. 
If  it  were  only  true !  But  she  had  erased  the 
word,  and  only  the  impression  of  the  sharp 
pencil  was  left.  Yet,  it  might  be  true. 

A  noise  of  scraping  chairs  in  the  room  out 
side  ended  his  speculation.  Quickly  he  touched 
the  paper  to  the  flame  and  rubbed  the  charred 
remains  into  his  boot  tops.  Men  entered.  A 
triumphant  leer  dominated  the  face  of  the 
leader,  Buller  Garret. 

"Get  ready,  Mr.  J-a-r,  we're  goin'  to  meet 
the  Sheriff.  No  use  hangin'  round  here,  hey 
boys?"  Even  the  dull  wits  of  the  gangsters 
caught  the  play  of  words,  and  they  laughed 
roughly  as  Pete  looked  on,  apparently  at  ease. 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  139 

"I'm  beginning  to  like  it  around  here, 
rather  bad  night  to  travel  anyhow,  isn't  it?" 
Pete  answered,  seeming  more  at  ease  than  at 
any  time  since  his  capture. 

As  he  spoke  he  observed  that  the  men  back 
of  Buller  became  irritable.  Pete's  words  had 
plainly  sat  badly  with  them. 

"Puttin'  on  yer  hat,  or  goin'  thataway?" 
Buller  snarled,  then  without  waiting  for  a  reply 
continued,  "guess  it  'ud  look  better  if  ya  didn't 
wear  a  hat,  at  that."  Buller  then  turned  and 
spoke  to  a  companion:  "Better  let  'im  wear 
the  evidence.  Here,  put  'er  on.n  The  latter 
was  spoken  to  Pete,  as  Buller  tossed  a  fur  coat 
to  the  floor  before  him.  In  the  dingy  light  of 
the  room  Pete  made  out  Hawkins'  blood- 
smeared  coat,  and  winced  at  the  sight. 

"C'mon,  or  we'll  knock  ya  cold  an'  drag 
yer  out.  That'ud  look  better  yet.  Whadda 
you  think?"  Buller  turned  to  the  men  and 
even  as  he  spoke  one  of  them  slinked  out  from 
the  doorway  and  edged  his  way  past  Pete. 

"Oh,  I've  been  dragged  before,  isn't  so 
bad,"  Pete  bantered,  backing  to  the  wall,  as  he 
spoke.  "Funny,  everytime  I  get  hit  on  the 
head,"  looking  straight  at  Buller,  "I  see  num 
bers,  lots  of  'em,"  Pete  marked  them  off  in  the 
air  with  his  finger  1-3-0-6-6-6  "just  like  that," 
he  continued  in  a  solemn  voice,  "big  black 


ones." 


140  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

If  Pete  had  struck  with  his  fist,  he  could 
not  have  delivered  a  more  stunning  blow. 
Buller  wavered  a  moment,  a  hint  of  the  hunted 
animal  coming  over  him.  Then  for  an  instant 
he  quavered,  before  he  regained  his  air  of 
bravado. 

"He's  goin'  nuts,  fellers,  let's  get  goin'  or 
the  Sheriff'll  beat  us  here." 

"Better  talk  to  me  first,  for  a  minute  or 
two,  Jimmy  Hogan,  I  mean  Buller.  Maybe  I 
can  tip  you  on  something  that  might  happen." 

Pete's  words  found  their  mark,  and  Buller, 
his  hands  shaking  visibly,  motioned  the  men 
about  him  to  remain  quiet.  Nervously  he 
moistened  his  dry  lips  and  only  the  dimness  of 
the  light  saved  him  from  the  puzzled  stare  of 
the  gangsters  about  him.  "The — the — them 
signals  didn't  look  too  good  to  me,  fellers,"  he 
stammered,  "better  let  me  buzz  this  bird  alone, 
fer  jest  a  second;  maybe  he  oughta  be  bumped 
right  here,  now."  So  saying,  he  nodded  his 
head  in  the  direction  of  the  door,  and  stood 
with  shaking  hand  on  the  butt  of  his  gun,  while 
the  men  walked  slowly  out.  Then  turning  to 
Pete,  he  tried  once  more  to  bluff  it  out. 

"I'm  wise,  what's  the  game?" 

"You  are  convict  number  130-666,  Jimmy 
Hogan,  alias  Jimmy  Duffy,  alias  Buller  Garret. 
They  want  to  hang  you  out  Frisco  way  for  the 
murder  of 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  141 

"I  said  I  was  wise,"  Buller  interrupted, 
visibly  weakening,  "what's  the  game?  Yer 
the  only  livin'  soul  in  Moapa  with  the  goods  on 
me.  Think  I'll  let  you  buzz  the  Sheriff?  Say 
not.  You  been  livin'  too  long  already." 

"Don't  get  in  a  hurry,  Jimmy,  bumpin'  me 
won't  get  you  anywhere.  You  went  thieving 
through  my  pockets  when  you  dragged  me  in 
here,  didn't  you?  Well,  how  did  I  get  these? 
They  weren't  in  my  pockets,  then,"  Pete  fin 
ished  his  words  by  flashing  the  record  from  his 
pocket. 

"A  dick,  by  God,  you  are  a  dick !  But  you 
ain't  got  me,  not  yet,"  Buller  jabbered  in  sudden 
fear,  and  with  a  wild  movement  reached  for 
his  gun.  But  his  quavering  nerves  and  thor 
oughly  beaten  spirit  refused  to  obey  his  sudden 
frenzy.  With  one  lunge  Pete  had  his  arms 
vice-like  about  the  writhing  body  of  the  gang 
ster.  "One  word,  Jimmy  Hogan,  an'  you  cash 
in,"  he  hissed  as  he  fought  silently  for  the  gun. 
Bull  was  beaten  before  the  struggle  began, 
beaten  by  the  inherent  fear  of  the  law  that  rests 
in  the  heart  of  every  criminal.  His  frail  body 
was  no  match  for  the  powerful  Pete,  who  bore 
upon  him  like  an  avalanche.  A  moment,  only, 
and  the  silent  struggle  was  over  as  Pete  lifted 
his  man  bodily  through  the  air  and  sent  him 
smashing  down  on  the  bed.  Throwing  caution 
to  the  wind  he  leaped  upon  him  like  a  wild 


142  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

animal,  gouging  his  fingers  deep  into  the  flabby 
throat  beneath  him.  For  a  moment  he  shook 
him  with  the  frenzy  of  a  madman,  then  sat  him 
down  with  a  bang  into  a  chair. 

Alarmed  at  the  noise,  several  of  the  men 
rushed  in  from  the  door  step  leading  out  of  the 
house,  and  opened  the  door  of  Pete's  room. 

"Tell  'em  to  wait,  you  dog,  or  this  thing 
talks!"  Pete  stood,  back  to  the  door,  menacing 
Duller  with  his  own  gun.  "Quick,  tell  'em!" 

Duller  gasped  for  breath. 

"Stay  out  a  minute,"  he  called,  and  rose 
weakly  to  his  feet  to  do  with  a  wave  of  the  arm 
what  his  words  could  not  convey. 

In  the  semi-darkness  of  the  room  the  gang 
sters  saw  nothing  wrong  and  one  of  them 
shouted : 

"The  Sheriff's  most  here,  if  you  ain't  comin', 
we're  goin'."  Then  they  resumed  their  stand 
on  the  steps  of  the  cabin. 

"Now  I'm  talking,"  Pete  began,  as  he  again 
stood  over  Dull,  "and  you  listen.  I'm  not 
working  alone  in  this  game.  We  could  have 
had  you  long  ago,  but  we're  not  after  you. 
Touch  one  hair  of  my  head,  though,  you  or  any 
body,  and  you're  going  up,  don't  forget  that. 
We're  watching  you.  Leave  me  alone  and 
behave  yourself,  and  we  won't  bother  you. 
Now  call  those  men  in,  tell  'em  you're  all 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  143 

wrong,  I'm  somebody  else,  Philip  West  will  do. 
Hurry  up." 

Buller  knew  that  a  reply  was  useless,  and 
said  not  a  word.  Walking  slowly  to  the  door, 
he  called  in  the  men  from  the  snow-covered 
steps. 

"This  bird  ain't  Peter  Alden,"  he  an 
nounced  in  a  thin  shaky  voice.  "We're  all 
wrong,  Peter  Alden  got  away,  somehow.  This 
is  Philip  West."  Before  the  astonished  and 
bewildered  gangsters  could  reply,  three  men 
emerged  from  the  darkness  and  came  rapidly 
toward  the  group,  which  still  stood  half  in  and 
half  out  of  the  house.  On  hearing  the  three 
men  approach,  Pete  joined  the  group. 

"Well,"  one  of  the  newcomers  announced, 
"I'm  Olcott,  the  Sheriff.  Where's  this  Alden  ?" 

"Hell,  you're  hours  late,  he  bumped 
Hawkins  and  flew  the  coop.  Gone,"  Buller 
answered. 

"Which  wray  did  he  go,  where's  his  tracks?" 
Olcott  snapped. 

For  a  moment  the  gangsters  were  taken  by 
surprise,  as  the  sharp  eyes  of  the  Sheriff 
searched  their  faces. 

"Think  he  made  it  out  the  back  way," 
Pete  volunteered,  motioning  toward  the  rear  of 
the  house. 

"Let's  see,"  the  Sheriff  answered  testily,  as 


144  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

he  produced  a  flashlight  from  his  pocket,  and 
led  the  way  to  the  rear  of  the  string  of  houses. 

uHere's  his  trail,  right  enough,"  he  finally 
called  out  to  his  two  companions.  Damn  small 
feet  though.  Funny."  He  hesitated  a  moment 
and  fumbled  in  his  pocket  for  a  folded  bit  of 
paper,  which  Pete  recognized  as  the  handbill 
showing  his  very  picture.  "That's  it,  he's  still 
wearing  his  city  shoes.  Come  on,  men,  let's 
after  him.  But  wait  a  minute.  Where's 
Hawkins,  Buller?  You  say  he's  done  for?" 

"Taking  him  to  Moapa,  Tamarack  Sue's 
snakin'  him  in  on  a  sled,  ought're  be  there  by 


now." 


Apparently  satisfied,  the  Sheriff  and  his 
party  went  on,  to  follow,  as  Pete  knew,  the  trail 
left  by  Tarn. 

As  soon  as  the  posse  was  lost  in  the  dark 
ness  Pete  pulled  Buller  aside,  and  spoke  close 
to  his  ear.  "Where's  Hawkins?" 

"S'elp  me,  God,  I'm  tellin'  the  truth, 
Tamarack  Sue's  snakin'  him  in,  I  saw  her." 

"Who  bumped  him?" 

"Slim  Eliot." 

"Where's  Slim  Eliot?" 

"Gone,  don't  know." 

Pete  knew  that  Buller  was  telling  the  truth. 


CHAPTER  X 

OETE  arose  on  the  morning  following  his 
deliverance  from  the  Sheriff,  with  a  feeling 
akin  to  buoyancy.  He  was  free,  at  least  from 
immediate  restraint,  although  the  energy  with 
which  the  Sheriff  pursued  the  trail  at  the  rear 
of  the  house  indicated  the  seriousness  of  his 
position,  so  far  as  the  world  at  large  was  con 
cerned.  Several  very  definite  circumstances 
aside  from  his  personal  freedom  added  to  the 
revival  of  his  spirits.  Judge  Stivers  had  re 
ceived  his  note.  The  fact  that  no  message  came 
with  the  letter  he  received  unopened  from  Susie 
worried  him  a  little ;  but  nevertheless,  the  Judge, 
and  surely  his  father,  had  his  declaration  of 
innocence,  and  would  take  appropriate  action 
regarding  the  criminal  charge  against  him. 
Then,  too,  Hawkins  might  not  be  dead;  he 
could  not  but  feel  that  the  guiding  hand  of  Tam 
had  averted  such  a  tragedy.  Yet,  her  note  had 
been  woefully  short,  as  though  she  had  lost 
interest  in  everything  save  the  delivery  of  the 
letter.  This,  although  addressed  to  her,  had 
been  unopened;  another  strange  matter.  But 
the  eternal  spirit  of  hope,  the  feeling  that  all 
is  well  in  the  absence  of  positive  proof  to  the 
contrary,  comforted  Pete  as  he  leisurely  set 


146  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

about  exploring  the  various  rooms  of  the  con 
nected  cabin-like  houses,  out  of  one  of  which 
he  had  been  so  recently  delivered. 

Buller  and  little  Phil  Alguin  alone  remained 
of  the  nest  of  gangsters  who  had  occupied  the 
premises  for  the  past  week.  Buller  was  badly 
broken.  Ever  since  Susie  had  come  into  his 
life  he  had  brooded  over  the  chances  of  his 
being  brought  to  justice  for  crimes  committed 
long  before  he  entered  the  service  of  J.  D. 
Browning,  and  but  for  the  firm  belief  that 
Peter  was  actually  with  others,  who  would  im 
mediately  avenge  his  death,  Buller  would 
never  have  allowed  him  to  step  out  of  the 
rooms  alive.  As  it  was,  he  was  wholly  at  his  ex- 
prisoner's  mercy,  and  made  little  attempt  to 
conceal  the  fact.  "Little  Phil,"  for  reasons  best 
known  to  Buller,  followed  the  latter's  instruc 
tions,  and  seemed  more  than  willing  to  make 
what  amends  were  possible  while  Peter  was 
still  with  them. 

Following  breakfast,  Pete  set  about 
reassembling  his  pack,  remains  of  which  were 
scattered  broadcast  about  the  corner  of  the 
room  where  first  he  dumped  them  in  his  mad 
rush  for  the  first-aid  kit.  He  found  it  necessary 
now  to  demand  several  articles  of  absolute 
necessity  from  Buller  and  Little  Phil  before  he 
could  safely  consider  the  pack  complete. 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  147 

uMind  wisin'  us  where  yer  goin'?"  Buller 
asked  submissively,  yet  with  a  touch  of  feeling 
as  he  observed  Pete's  evident  intention  of  leav 
ing. 

"Don't  know  myself,  exactly,"  Pete  con 
fessed. 

"Can't  be  figgerin'  on  hittin'  the  cushions  er 
goin'  back  to  the  lights,  with  a  pack,"  Alguin 
observed,  pointing  to  Pete's  preparations  for 
the  trail. 

"Well,  I  started  out  to  work  in  Hawkins' 
mine,  the  Dead  Horse.  Might  as  well  go 
through  with  it,  I  guess.  How  far  is  it  from 
here  and  how  does  one  get  there?" 

Peter  thought  he  detected  a  return  of  the 
crafty  look  in  Buller's  eye,  as  the  latter 
answered. 

"All  hell  couldn't  get  you  by  the  pass,  lest 
you  carry  an  O.  K.  from  J.  D." 

"Why?" 

"Dunno,  jest  orders,  that's  all.  You'll  find 
all  the  boys  layin'  up  at  the  pass  that  was 
warmin'  the  fire  here  last  week;  they  ain't 
feelin'  any  too  good  about  the  fifty  thousand 
berries  they  think  yer  holdin'  out  on  'em, 
either." 

"Um,  hum,"  Pete  reflected  and  stood  think 
ing  quietly  for  a  moment.  "That  being  the 
case,  guess  I'll  go  back  to  Moapa,  and  finish  my 
job  in  these  parts,  right  off." 


148  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

At  these  words  a  slight  frown  came  over 
Alguin's  face,  and  he  attempted  to  pass  a  signal 
to  Bull,  but  Pete  intercepted  it. 

"Might  as  well  tell  me  about  it,  boys.  Don't 
start  holding  out,  already." 

"Well,"  Alguin  confessed,  "I  ain't  crazy 
to  have  you  layin'  around  Moapa,  I  don't  mind 
sayin'  Id  rather  you  wuz  as  far  up  in  the  moun 
tains  as  God-a-might'll  let  you  go." 

"Me,  too,"  Buller  added. 

"Well,  seems  to  me  that's  up  to  you  fel 
lows,"  Pete  replied.  "I'm  for  going,  right  off. 
Get  me  by  the  pass  and  that's  all  I  want." 

Buller  and  Alguin  accepted  the  words  si 
lently  and  indicated  a  desire  to  hold  a  consulta 
tion.  Pete  obligingly  gave  them  an  opportu 
nity.  At  length  they  called  to  him.  "Phil, 
here,"  Buller  started,  "is  thinkin'  it  wouldn't  be 
safe.  Mountains  get  hard  this  time  a  year,  you 
mightn't  get  through.  Then  how  about  us, 
see?" 

The  question  hinted  of  a  clumsy  trick. 

"That's  the  chance  you're  taking,"  Pete 
answered,  calmly.  "Maybe  I  won't  get  through, 
and  if  I  don't,  then  the  lid's  off.  and  you  fel 
lows  are  in  for  it.  Maybe  I  will  get  through, 
then  things  stand  as  they  are." 

"Yeh,"  Alguin  persisted.  "Figgerin'  we 
get  you  by  the  pass,  how's  anybody  goin'  to 
know  what's  happened  to  you?" 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  149 

"Don't  worry  about  that,  just  you  two  keep 
your  fingers  out  of  what  happens  to  me,  and 
things  will  be  fine.  Only  just  don't  start — 
anything." 

"I  say,  let's  get  him  by.  He's  better  up 
there  than  hanging  around  Moapa,"  Alguin 
urged,  evidently  convinced  that  Pete  held  the 
whip  hand. 

The  discussion,  more  a  matching  of  wits 
than  an  attempt  to  establish  a  program,  at 
length  resulted  in  an  agreement,  on  the  part 
of  Buller  and  Alguin,  to  pass  Pete  by  the  bar 
rier  of  the  Salmon  Tooth  guards,  and  to  start 
him  out  as  best  they  could  toward  the  Dead 
Horse  Mine. 

It  was  nearly  noon  when  the  trio  emerged 
from  the  building  that  had  held  Pete  prisoner 
for  so  many  weary  days.  At  first,  the  pure 
joy  of  walking,  the  feel  of  frosty  air  and  the 
close  proximity  of  towering  snow-covered 
mountains  thrilled  him.  The  two  submissive 
gangsters,  who  walked  in  single  file  before  him 
were  apparently,  he  observed,  as  unused  to 
travel  as  he  himself,  as  their  pace  was  slow 
and  laborious,  a  circumstance  for  which  he  was 
duly  grateful,  for  of  the  three,  he  alone  carried 
a  pack. 

It  was  expected  that  Salmon  Tooth  Pass 
would  be  reached  by  sundown,  and  that  the 


150  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

buildings  there  would  afford  shelter  for  the 
night. 

As  the  journey  progressed,  however,  the 
thrill  of  freedom  and  new  scenery  gave  way 
to  an  irritating  sense  of  ever-increasing  incon 
venience.  The  boots,  although  a  week  and 
more  old,  were  nevertheless  new  and  unbroken. 
They  rubbed  his  heels  mercilessly  and  seemed 
to  grow  heavier  with  every  step.  Perspiration 
soon  began  to  trickle  in  little  rivulets  beneath 
his  heavy  woolen  underwear,  affording  an  ex 
cellent  opportunity  for  chills  when  the  party 
halted  for  short  rests  along  the  trail. 

The  pass  proved  to  be  actually  nearer  than 
Pete  had  surmised,  and  fully  an  hour  before  the 
sun  dipped  behind  the  first  rugged  crags  of  dis 
tant  peaks,  he  beheld  the  narrow  opening  in 
the  sheer  walls  of  jagged  rocks  before  him. 
Even  before  he  could  discern  the  outline  of 
snow-covered  houses,  that  he  knew  stood  at  the 
entrance  to  the  pass,  his  ears  were  assailed  by 
the  loud  roaring  of  rushing  water;  a  roaring 
magnified  many  times  in  the  amphitheatre 
formed  by  the  sheer  mountain  walls. 

A  half  hour  later,  as  the  trio  approached 
the  first  of  two  buildings  that  stood  in  the  very 
center  of  the  pass,  Buller  advanced  and  spoke 
to  several  men  who  emerged  from  the  first 
cabin. 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  151 

Apparently  satisfied  with  what  they  heard, 
one  of  the  men  beckoned  to  Pete  and  Alguin 
to  come  up. 

Buller  stood  to  one  side  and  pointed  to 
Pete,  who  came  up  first. 

"This  is  him,  Philip  West,  friend  of  mine." 
Peter  was  a  poor  actor  and  important  as  the 
introduction  was,  his  face  could  not  hide  his 
distaste  at  the  expression  of  "friend,"  the 
gangster  used.  The  introduction  stopped  there, 
and  it  was  necessary  for  the  man  from  the 
cabin  to  continue  it. 

"I'm  Jenkins,  pass  foreman,"  he  stated 
simply,  as  he  extended  his  hand.  Pete  grasped 
it  willingly  enough,  and  swiftly  appraised  his 
new  acquaintance.  The  man  was  distinctly 
unusual,  to  say  the  least,  and  Pete  could  not 
be  sure  that  he  was  making  an  advantageous 
trade,  in  exchanging  his  late  captors  for  this 
guardian  of  Salmon  Tooth  Pass. 

Almost  immediately  after  the  meeting, 
comfortable  quarters  were  provided  in  Jenkins' 
own  cabin,  where  Pete  made  himself  as  much 
at  home  as  possible,  considering  his  newness 
to  camp  life  generally. 

The  evening  meal  proved  the  best  he  had 
eaten  in  weeks.  Broiled  mountain  trout,  served 
with  delicious  rashers  of  crisp  brown  bacon, 
on  a  hot  platter  garnished  with  watercress; 
stacks  of  fluffy  biscuits  ranged  alongside  of  a 


152  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

huge  can  of  syrup ;  baked  potatoes,  and  a  com 
bination  of  corn,  beans  and  peas,  blended  to 
gether  with  creamy  sauce  in  a  way  new  even  to 
Pete's  highly  educated  palate,  brought  enthu 
siastic  comment  that  came  straight  from  his 
heart. 

"Mr.  Jenkins,  you  are  certainly  to  be  con 
gratulated  on  the  excellent  table  you  have,  away 
up  here,"  he  remarked  as  he  helped  himself 
to  biscuits  for  the  third  time. 

'Til  admit  it,"  replied  Jenkins,  "and  fur 
thermore,  I'll  say  we've  got  it  coming.  See  old 
Charley,  there?"  waving  a  fork  at  a  rotund 
Chinaman  of  uncertain  years,  who  seemed  to 
be  glued  to  a  huge  wooden  bowl  in  the  kitchen. 
"Had  a  harder  fight  getting  him  than  old  J.  D. 
had  building  the  bridge  up  yonder."  Jen 
kins  indicated  a  sturdy  span  of  steel  girders 
that  seemed  suspended  in  the  air,  high  above 
the  roaring  waters  of  the  stream. 

"How  interesting!  You  must  tell  me  about 
it,"  Pete  replied,  taking  advantage  of  his  ex 
pressed  interest  to  gather  another  crisp  trout 
from  the  platter  before  him.  "How  did  it 
happen?  I'd  say  he's  worth  more  than  the 
bridge." 

"Well,  it's  a  long  story.  He  used  to  be 
long  up  in  Hawkins'  camp,  Dead  Horse 
workings.  They  all  hated  us  like  poison  up 
there,  when  they  found  out  we  wanted  him. 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  153 

They  made  him  believe  we  were  running  a 
bogey  house  of  some  sort  or  other  down  here. 
I  heard  about  him  through  some  of  the  boys. 
They  told  me  how  he  was  the  best  blamed 
cook  the  Saw  Tooth  Mountains  ever  had,  and 
I  decided  I  wanted  him.  Money  couldn't  buy 
him.  They  had  him  buffaloed  for  a  while,  but 
I  got  it  into  my  head  I  wanted  that  Chink,  and 
I  got  him." 

"But  how  did  you  do  it?"  Pete  was  genuine 
ly  interested,  for  the  story  involved  the  Dead 
Horse  Mine,  an  excellent  subject  to  dwell  upon 
later. 

"Ha,  ha,  now  you're  asking  for  informa 
tion.  Everyone  who  eats  here,  even  J.  D.  him 
self,  has  asked  me  that  question.  Only  Charley 
and  I  know  the  answer  though,  and  old  Charley 
doesn't  understand  English,  do  you,  Charley?" 
The  old  Chinaman  had  left  his  bowl  to  bring 
in  another  plate  of  biscuits. 

"No,  no,  me  no  talkee  ingelish,  only  meli- 
can,  Mr.  Jenklins,  only  talkee  melican." 

"The  Dead  Horse  people  must  have  felt 
quite  badly  about  it,"  Pete  continued,  reluctant 
to  drop  the  subject.  "Suppose  they  have  an 
other  one  by  this  time,  though — " 

"Only  three  of  'em  left  up  there  now.  One 
of  them's  sick,  I  hear,  that'll  leave  only  two 
working  until  you  get  there.  Buller  tells  me 
you're  going  up  to  join  them?"  As  Jenkins 


154  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

talked,  Pete  thought  he  saw  a  hint  of  covert 
understanding  in  his  eye. 

"Yes,  I  figure  on  spending  the  winter  up 
there.  But  tell  me  about  the  cook,  have  they 
another  one?" 

"Guess  not,  every  man  for  himself.  Beats 
me  how  they  do  it.  I  get  into  Moapa  once 
in  awhile,  anyway,  but  God  knows  it's  bad 
enough  to  stick  here  all  winter,  even  at  that." 

"Oh,  guess  I'll  come  down,  occasionally,  I 
like  the  hills  all  right  enough,  what  little  I've 
seen  of  them.  But  all  winter !  Whew !  Guess 
I'll  come  down  and  go  to  Moapa  with  you; 
how  often  do  you  say  you  go  in?" 

"Sometimes  once  a  month,  sometimes  often- 
er,  but  say,  if  you're  figurin'  on  coming  back 
this  winter,  you  hadn't  better  start  at  all." 

"Why,  trail  so  bad  as  all  that?" 

"No,  trail's  bad  of  course,  but  that  part  is 
O.  K.  Our  orders  are  none  of  the  help  from 
further  up  than  Jumbo  Point  can  come  out  till 
Spring."  Jenkins  seemed  a  little  perturbed  at 
Pete's  apparent  ignorance  of  orders.  For  a 
moment  he  looked  carefully  from  Buller  to  Lit 
tle  Phil,  who  had  thus  far  sat  silently  by,  too 
much  interested  with  the  food,  evidently,  to 
talk. 

Buller  was  quick  to  follow  the  drift  of  the 
conversation,  however,  and  stepped  into  the 
breach  now  quite  cleverly.  "West's  wise  all 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  155 

right,"  he  broke  in,  "but  he's  not  quite  on  to 
just  who's  who  'round  this  end  of  the  workin's." 
His  foot  sought  out  Pete's  beneath  the  table 
and  kicked  it  sharply. 

"How  about  the  sick  bloke,  he  comin' 
here?"  Alguin  asked,  following  Buller's  lead. 

"They're  on  the  trail  with  him  now,  I  think, 
nothin'  much  the  matter  with  him,  I  guess,  just 
stallin'  to  get  into  town." 

Pete  changed  the  subject,  and  thereafter 
the  conversation  stayed  in  channels  that  inter 
ested  him,  but  gave  him  little  information. 

In  spite  of  his  hard  afternoon  trip,  and  the 
thought  that  he  could  remove  his  clothes  for 
the  first  time  in  over  a  week  and  rest  in  peace, 
Pete  accepted  an  invitation  to  sit  in  at  poker,  a 
pastime  that  seemed  to  be  innocent  enough,  as 
he  recalled  his  total  lack  of  money.  Jenkins 
was  equal  to  the  occasion,  however,  and  sug 
gested  a  small  loan,  explaining  that  while  J.  D. 
hadn't  confirmed  Bull's  statement,  he,  West, 
would  probably  be  on  the  payroll  before  long. 

Buller,  hearing  the  remark,  squirmed  un 
easily  as  he  contemplated  his  next  visit  to  J.  D. 
and  the  time  he  would  have  "fixing"  Pete's 
standing  there.  He  comforted  himself  with 
the  thought  that  something  was  due  him  on 
the  Hawkins  deal,  at  any  rate,  and  took  his  seat 
at  the  game  in  a  much  better  mood  than  he  had 
been  in  for  several  days.  Perhaps  the  thought 


156  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

of  Tamarack  Sue,  and  the  last  words  he  had 
with  her  preceding  his  turning  the  bumping  of 
Hawkins  over  to  Slim  Eliot,  had  much  to  do 
with  it.  At  any  rate,  as  he  sat  up  to  the  table 
now  he  seemed  to  be  more  in  the  mood  in  which 
Pete  had  first  seen  him  at  the  Gold  Nugget, 
than  he  had  been  at  any  time  since  then. 

Pete's  early  deduction  of  Jenkins'  character 
seemed  confirmed  as  he  watched  him  hand  out 
poker  chips  and  square  away  for  the  game. 

The  company  was  fast,  and  Pete  enjoyed 
a  good  game  of  poker.  Alguin  and  Duller 
played  together,  not  obviously,  but  with  the 
cunningness  that  characterized  everything  they 
did.  Jenkins  apparently  knew  them,  and  played 
accordingly.  But  as  the  game  wore  on,  Pete 
became  more  and  more  aware  of  the  deep 
seated  mania  for  winning  that  seemed  to  pos 
sess  Jenkins.  Time  after  time,  as  luck  favored 
Pete,  Jenkins  reached  for  whiskey,  pulled  his 
hat  further  down  over  his  eyes,  and  studied  the 
game  in  deadly  earnest.  A  rivalry  that  might 
have  taken  months  to  crop  out  ordinarily,  de 
veloped  between  the  two  men  before  the  game 
was  three  hours  old.  Pete  always  played  his 
cards,  resorting  to  bluff  only  occasionally.  The 
pace  became  hot,  and  Buller  soon  demanded  a 
show  down,  and  lost.  Then  Little  Phil,  never 
a  good  player  in  a  gentleman's  game,  shoved 
his  last  stack  to  the  center  of  the  table  and  quit. 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  157 

It  was  Jenkins'  deal,  and  even  though  the 
hour  was  late,  Buller  and  Alguin  kept  their 
seats  and  watched  the  rivals  fight  it  out. 

Pete  took  his  hand,  glanced  at  it  a  second, 
and  called  for  four  cards. 

Jenkins  stood  pat,  shoving  in  a  half  of  his 
stack. 

It  was  Pete's  bet.  "Raise  you  fifty,"  he  said 
evenly.  It  was  the  largest  bet  of  the  even 
ing  and  Jenkins  hesitated  a  moment,  looked 
Pete  in  the  face  and  snapped  back,  "And  I'll 
raise  you  fifty,  that's  how  I  feel  about  it." 

"That  goes  here,  show  down,"  Pete  an 
swered  calmly,  shoving  his  entire  stack  to  the 
center.  Jenkins  answered  by  shoving  in  his 
pile,  but  the  veins  in  his  hands  and  neck  seemed 
to  swell  out  with  pent-up  emotion,  as  he  did  so. 

Pete  calmly  laid  down  four  aces. 

A  new  look  came  over  Jenkins'  face  as  he 
displayed  three  kings,  rising  the  while  from 
his  chair. 

Pete  did  likewise,  and  not  a  word  was 
spoken.  Pete  stood  full  length  directly  beside 
the  table,  and  commenced  to  yawn.  But  the 
yawn  didn't  seem  to  come  natural.  He  would 
gladly  have  given  back  all  of  the  winnings,  he 
began  to  think,  rather  than  make  an  enemy  of 
his  host.  For  a  moment  Jenkins  stood  stock 
still,  his  eyes  running  up  and  down  the  figure 
before  him.  Then  suddenly  he  came  directly 


158  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

up  to  Pete,  and  with  a  sneer  on  his  face  bent 
over  and  dug  his  fingers  into  Pete's  boot  tops. 

For  a  moment,  Pete's  heart  seemed  to  stop 
beating,  as  he  recalled  with  a  start  that  he  had 
not  taken  from  their  original  hiding  place,  the 
cards  he  took  from  Buller  over  a  week  ago. 

Even  before  Jenkins'  hand  could  reach  the 
card,  Pete  saw  with  his  first  glance  the  tell-tale 
tip  protruding  above  the  boot  top. 

The  tension  rose  quickly  to  the  snapping 
point;  still  Pete  could  utter  not  a  word. 

"I  guess  I've  got  your  number."  Jenkins 
shot  the  words  through  his  teeth  with  all  the 
disgust  of  a  man  cheated  in  his  own  house. 

"I  haven't  used  those  cards  tonight,  forgot 
they  were  there,"  Pete  answered  evenly.  "I 
can  explain,  Mr.  Jenkins." 

"Not  to  me.  Good  night,  Mr.  West." 
Pete  noted  the  undue  emphasis  on  the  "West." 
"Buller  will  show  you  where  the  gang  sleeps  in 
the  shack  outside.  Guess  I  don't  want  you  in 
here,  tonight."  Then,  turning  to  Buller,  he  di 
rected  him  to  escort  Pete  and  his  pack  to  the 
bunk  house,  adding,  "Come  back,  you  and  Al- 
guin,  when  you  are  through,  I  want  to  talk  to 
you." 

Whereupon  Pete  gathered  up  his  pack,  and 
silently  left  the  room. 

If  there  was  one  thing  on  earth  Peter  de 
spised  above  another,  it  was  a  cheater,  and  to  be 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  159 

denounced  as  such,  even  by  so  questionable  a 
character  as  he  knew  Jenkins  to  be,  cut  him  to 
the  quick.  But  if  this  hurt  him,  the  fact  that 
Jenkins  refused  even  to  allow  him  to  make  an 
explanation  was  worse.  Still  he  knew  he  could 
not  explain,  flanked  as  he  was  by  Buller  and 
Alguin.  Yet  the  whole  affair  maddened  him. 
No  sooner  was  he  outside  the  door  than 
he  grasped  Buller  firmly  by  the  arm  and  spoke 
close  to  his  ear.  "When  you're  talking  to  him, 
don't  forget,  1-3-0-6-6-6.  Stall  around  out  here 
awhile  before  you  go  back,  both  of  you.  I'm 
not  going  to  the  shack." 


CHAPTER  XI 

/CHAFING  beneath  the  sting  of  humilia- 
^^  tion  and  anger  as  a  result  of  the  dramatic 
climax  of  the  poker  game,  Pete  stumbled  for 
ward  and  made  his  way  to  the  trail  that  seemed 
to  lead  into  the  black  gorge  ahead  of  him.  As 
soon  as  he  had  cleared  the  pool  of  light  that 
streamed  from  Jenkins'  window,  he  stopped 
short  and  listened.  He  heard  the  door  open 
— saw  Buller  enter — and  heard  the  door  close. 
Yet  for  fully  five  minutes  longer  he  waited  and 
listened.  Then,  as  no  sound  greeted  his  ears, 
he  concluded  that  Buller  was  evidently  doing 
his  work  well, — and  he  started  once  more  on 
his  journey. 

At  first  he  stumbled  badly — knocking  often 
into  sharp  edges  of  boulders  half  covered 
with  snow — sometimes  tripping  completely  and 
sprawling  at  full  length  along  the  trail.  But 
as  he  fought  his  way  along,  his  eyes  became 
accustomed  to  the  night.  Fortunately,  too,  the 
moon  was  out  and  occasionally  managed  to 
evade  mountain  crags  and  towering  mountain 
cedars  long  enough  to  illuminate  the  trail  for 
brief  moments. 

For  over  two  hours  Pete  struggled  along, 
devoting  all  of  his  fast  depleting  energy  to  stay- 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  161 

ing  on  the  trail.  In  spite  of  the  roaring  waters, 
several  times  he  halted  abruptly  and  could  have 
sworn  he  was  followed.  Not  that  any  distinct 
noise  sounded  above  the  roar  of  the  stream  be 
side  him,  but  rather  because  of  a  sudden  pre 
monition  that  possessed  him.  Twice  he  turned 
sharply  in  his  tracks  and  faced  the  trail  behind 
him.  On  both  occasions  he  saw  moving  shad 
ows,  but  his  better  judgment  told  him  there  were 
shadows  everywhere,  on  account  of  the  uncer 
tain  light  of  the  moon  and  he  so  assured  him 
self, — rather  loudly.  Strangely  enough,  his 
voice  and  even  his  reason  lacked  conviction. 
His  gloved  hand  sought  the  holster  of  his 
gun — a  weapon  not  unknown  to  him,  although 
one  he  had  long  neglected.  Nervously  he  took 
it  from  its  holster  now  and  sighted  at  objects 
along  the  trail.  He  found  his  gloved  fingers 
were  exceedingly  awkward  about  the  trigger — 
and  decided  to  carry  the  gun  in  his  hand.  As 
he  approached  a  narrow  defile,  flanked  on  one 
side  by  roaring  ice-burdened  waters,  and  by 
sheer  walls  on  the  other,  leaving  barely  pas 
sage  space  for  the  trail,  a  sudden  idea  struck 
him.  He  increased  his  speed,  and  hurried  over 
the  narrow  shelf.  Almost  immediately  the  de 
file  widened  out  into  its  natural  size — just 
as  Pete  had  hoped.  Selecting  the  projecting 
point  of  a  large  boulder  for  a  seat,  he  quickly 
jumped  from  the  trail,  and  watched  the  nar- 


162  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

row  pass  behind.  For  fully  five  minutes  he 
waited — and  watched.  His  feet  were  begin 
ning  to  freeze  from  lack  of  exercise  and  a  chill 
worse  than  any  of  the  afternoon's,  attacked 
him.  Yet  no  one  had  appeared  on  the  trail, 
and  not  a  sound  could  be  heard  above  the  roar 
ing  of  the  waters.  Somewhat  relieved  he  pre 
pared  to  continue  the  journey,  when  two  creep 
ing  forms,  at  first  resembling  weird  shadows 
in  the  moonlight,  rounded  the  point  of  rock. 
Pete  sprang  to  his  feet,  gun  in  hand,  and  with 
what  voice  he  could  summon  shouted,  "Stand 
up — who's  there?" 

For  answer  the  shadows  assumed  the  forms 
of  two  great  black  cats  that  stood,  seemingly 
astonished,  directly  on  the  path  before  him. 
Shaking  with  fright  Pete  pulled  at  the  trigger  of 
his  gun.  Twice  he  shot — the  noise  sounding 
woefully  weak  and  ineffective  against  the  roar 
of  the  waters.  What  effect  the  shots  had  he 
could  not  determine.  The  forms  before  him 
disappeared,  however,  and  although  he  waited 
several  minutes  for  their  return,  they  had 
vanished.  Once  more  on  the  trail,  though, 
their  presence  was  harshly  impressed  upon  him. 
Weird  screams,  first  beyond  the  stream  on  the 
right,  and  then  as  though  answering  from  the 
jagged  walls  on  the  left,  sounded  even  above 
the  roaring  waters. 

Pete  was  completely  unnerved  by  the  ex- 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  163 

perience,  although  he  had  no  positive  fear  of  at 
tack.  There  was  something  uncanny  about  the 
journey  that  worked  on  his  nerves  and  seemed 
to  exact  as  much  from  his  strength  as  the  hard 
physical  going  along  the  snow  covered  trail 
itself. 

He  had  no  idea  of  the  time  of  night,  but 
he  knew  by  the  progress  of  the  moon  that  he 
must  have  been  traveling  for  at  least  four 
hours.  He  tried  to  guess  how  far  it  might  be 
to  the  Dead  Horse  Mine,  and  realized,  after 
all,  how  little  he  knew,  even  of  where  he  was 
going. 

The  gorge  gradually  widened  as  he  pro 
gressed  into  it,  the  trail  becoming  fairly  broad, 
and  well-defined.  Occasionally,  he  passed  what 
seemed  to  be  intersecting  trails,  and  he  expe 
rienced  some  curiosity  as  to  where  they  led. 
As  the  gulch  widened  he  noticed  the  stream 
seemed  to  flow  more  evenly,  and  knew  before 
long  he  must  be  passing  over  the  stretch  of 
placer  ground  of  which  he  had  heard  so  much. 

This,  then,  was  the  ground  for  which  men 
had  risked  their  lives — wrangled,  fought  and 
died!  "The  yellow  curse,"  he  had  heard  it 
called  by  those  who  lost.  "A  game — fit  only 
for  men,"  he  had  heard  the  winners  boast.  In 
spite  of  his  weariness — and  at  times  it  seemed 
to  overwhelm  him — his  thought  dwelt  long 
on  the  significance  of  the  frozen  gravel 


164  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

beneath  him.  His  pulse  quickened  as  he 
recalled  the  history  of  strong  men — gold 
mad — who  here  fought  out  between  them  the 
right  of  possession.  Then  a  wave  of  resent 
ment,  a  flash  of  deep  rooted  hatred  raced 
through  his  brain  as  he  thought  of  the  present 
miners — winners  of  the  old  days — being  ruth 
lessly  cheated  and  beaten  by  the  very  law  they 
themselves  had  created  to  end  injustice  and 
outlawry.  His  vision  swept  beyond  the  im 
mediate  score  or  so  of  men  affected  by  the  new 
warfare,  and  he  pictured  in  his  mind  the  in 
nocent  thousands — scattered  over  all  the  coun 
try — who  would  sink  money,  some  of  them 
their  all,  in  the  hope  of  gaining  riches  from 
this  same  ground.  Only  this  time  they  pinned 
their  hopes  on  the  magic  of  the  Salmon  River 
Gold  Co.,  Inc. 

His  reverie,  however,  was  brought  to  a  rude 
and  sudden  conclusion  by  the  piercing  wail  of 
a  panther,  this  time  in  front  of  him.  He  had 
been  listening  to  them  for  hours,  but  now  in 
the  comparative  quiet  of  the  night — with  the 
roar  of  the  stream  lost  in  the  gorge  far  below 
him — the  blood-curdling  shriek,  like  a  woman 
screaming  in  agony,  sent  an  involuntary  shud 
der  through  him.  No  sooner  had  the  echoes 
of  the  first  long  cry  faded  out  than  a  louder, 
and  closer  one,  answered  from  the  trail  behind. 

Pete,    shivering    and    cold,    continued    his 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  165 

plodding  gait,  feeling  lonely  as  he  had  never 
felt  before,  yet  conscious  of  the  opportunity 
to  use  his  gun  afforded  by  the  broadening 
expanse  of  moonlit  ground  about  him.  Three 
times  the  panthers  screamed,  and  with  the  last 
rending  peal,  Pete  became  suddenly  aware  of 
a  light  showing  through  the  window  of  a  small 
shack  directly  in  front  of  him.  Except  for  the 
light,  he  would  have  passed  the  place  as  a  huge 
misplaced  boulder  covered  with  snow. 

He  hesitated  a  moment  and  waited  for 
some  sign  of  activity  to  follow  the  appearance 
of  the  light.  At  last  convinced  that  there  would 
be  none,  he  urged  his  weary  body  on  as  briskly 
as  possible  and  boldly  approached  the  low  door 
of  the  shack,  on  which  he  knocked  loudly — 
calling  out  at  the  same  time  if  anyone  were  in. 

Almost  instantly  the  door  opened,  and  Pete 
found  himself  confronted  by  a  weazened  old 
woman,  apparently  an  Indian,  who  held  a  lamp 
high  in  one  hand,  while  she  used  the  other  to 
shade  her  sunken  eyes. 

At  first  Pete's  shaggy  fur-covered  frame, 
coming  so  suddenly  out  of  the  darkness  of  mid 
night  seemed  to  frighten  the  little  old  woman. 
The  lamp  visibly  shook  in  her  hands. 

"Please  don't  be  frightened — I'm  only  a 
miner,  making  the  trail  at  the  wrong  time." 
Pete  apologized,  retreating  a  step  or  two  in 


166  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

the  hope  that  such  a  manoeuvre  would  help 
calm  the  shaking  figure  in  the  doorway. 

"Miner — walk  up  Gulch — night  time — 
bad." 

It  seemed  to  Pete  he  could  hear  the  parch 
ment  like  skin  on  the  old  woman's  neck  creak 
as  she  shook  her  head  slowly  from  one  side  to 
the  other. 

"The  Banshee  wail.  Come  in — it  is  the 
spirit!  Ugh.  In — miner."  For  some  reason 
this  strange  woman  of  the  mountains  seemed 
more  afraid  of  the  panther  cries  than  she  did 
of  the  stranger.  As  she  spoke  she  lowered 
her  hand  from  her  eyes  and  made  to  shut  the 
door. 

Pete,  seeing  her  anxiety  to  shut  out  as  much 
of  the  terrifying  cry  as  possible,  hurried  through 
the  door,  and  stood,  pack  still  on  his  back,  in 
the  center  of  the  room.  The  old  woman  re 
placed  the  lamp  on  the  wide  sill  of  the  square 
window.  As  she  did  so,  Pete  observed  the 
room.  In  the  center  stood  a  low  table,  scarcely 
large  enough  to  accommodate  more  than  three 
people  comfortably.  He  noted  the  absence  of 
a  cloth,  but  observed  the  near-whiteness  of  the 
boards  from  much  scrubbing.  In  the  center  of 
the  table  a  large  pot,  evidently  containing  rem 
nants  of  the  evening  meal,  still  remained,  sur 
rounded  by  numerous  dishes  and  cans.  The 
room  was  permeated  with  a  peculiarly  fragrant 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  167 

odor — emanating  from  numerous  bundles  of 
dried  herbs,  spices  and  grass  that  hung  sus 
pended  from  rafters  above,  or  from  long 
wooden  pegs  in  the  ceiling.  The  fireplace 
added  a  peculiar  touch  to  the  room;  it  seemed 
to  form  a  separate  compartment  by  itself,  oc 
cupying  as  it  did  fully  two-thirds  of  one  side 
of  the  room,  and  extending  several  feet  back. 
A  smouldering  fire  burned  there,  but  it  had  the 
appearance  of  one  left  from  early  evening, 
rather  than  one  intended  for  the  late  hours  of 
the  night. 

With  a  sigh  of  relief,  Pete  unslung  the 
heavy  pack  and  sank  wearily  into  one  of 
three  willow  back  chairs  that  stood  before  the 
fire.  For  a  moment  he  sat  there,  his  head  rest 
ing  between  his  hands,  a  picture  of  complete 
exhaustion. 

The  old  woman  made  a  few  shuffles  about 
the  room  before  finally  settling  herself  into  one 
of  the  remaining  chairs.  She  seemed  wholly 
unconcerned  at  the  presence  of  her  visitor,  and 
Pete  actually  believed  she  would  forget  him 
entirely  and  drop  off  to  sleep,  but  for  the  ever- 
recurring  cries  of  the  two  animals  without.  As 
the  weird  echoes  of  each  cry  would  die  down 
she  would  sway  back  and  forth  in  her  chair 
and  mutter: 

"There's  goin'  to  be  killin' — there's  goin' 


168  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

to  be  killin' — it's  the  she  Banshee's  wail.  The 
spirit  warnin'  there's  goin'  to  be  killin' !" 

"Is  that  what  their  screaming  means?" 
Pete  asked  sleepily  between  his  hands. 

"It's  the  spirit  tellin'  of  a  killin'  that's 
comin' — old  Hatty  knows.  She's  heard  'em 
since  long  before  miners  like  you  come  into  the 
hills — they  always  tell  Hatty." 

"Hatty."  The  name  suggested  something 
to  Pete's  drowsy  brain.  "Hatty."  A  picture 
of  the  prison  house  and  of  men  talking  came 
to  him.  It  was  someone  talking  to  Buller 
Garret  who  had  used  the  name.  They  had  been 
talking  about  Slim  Eliot  and  the  unsuccessful 
trip  to  Jumbo  Point.  "Hatty  would  have  seen 
Hawkins."  He  recalled  the  exact  words,  as 
he  looked  toward  the  old  woman  again. 
"You're  a  friend  of  Slim  Eliot — aren't  you?" 
he  asked. 

"Old  Hatty — friend  of  all  men — friend  of 
many,  many  men  no  more  in  mountains.  When 
she  Banshee  cries  another  friend  of  Hatty 
leaves  mountains.  Maybe  Slim  Eliot — who 
knows?  Only  Banshee  spirit — maybe  strange 
miner  new  in  hills — who  knows?  She  Banshee 
calls — someone  must  answer." 

Pete,  exhausted  as  he  was,  found  the  effort 
of  talking  too  much  for  his  drowsy  brain  and 
settled  back  in  the  comfortable  chair  and  slept, 
leaving  old  Hatty  swaying  back  and  forth,  mut- 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  169 

tering  aloud  with  every  cry  from  the  panthers 
that  now  seemed  to  be  making  their  way  slowly 
up  the  gorge. 

It  seemed  to  Pete  he  had  hardly  closed  his 
eyes  before  the  rattle  of  dishes  by  his  side 
aroused  him.  Only  his  eyelids  moved  without 
pain,  and  even  they  seemed  hot  and  swollen. 
His  neck  seemed  entirely  out  of  joint  when  he 
tried  to  turn  his  head  to  find  the  occasion  for 
the  rattling  of  dishes.  With  an  effort  he 
straightened  up  in  his  chair — involuntarily  ut 
tering  grunts  of  pain  as  he  shifted  the  position 
of  his  limbs.  At  length  he  was  able  to  come 
to  his  feet  and  look  about  him.  It  was  al 
ready  daylight  outside.  He  must  have  traveled 
far  into  the  night,  he  reasoned,  probably 
spurred  on  to  more  than  ordinary  effort  by  the 
cursed  panthers  that  seemed  now  to  be  but 
part  of  a  grotesque  nightmare  of  the  night 
before. 

The  pot  which  Pete  had  observed  on  the 
table  when  he  entered,  now  hung  suspended 
from  an  iron  hook  over  the  red  coals  of  the 
fire.  The  aroma  of  boiling  coffee  blended 
peculiarly  with  the  spicy  fragrance  of  the  room, 
and  had  the  effect  of  giving  to  Pete's  contempla 
tion  of  the  morning  meal  a  very  satisfying  sen 
sation. 

Hatty  continued  to  consider  the  presence  of 
the  stringer  in  her  shack  as  quite  an  ordinary 


170  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

occurrence  and  evidenced  no  desire  even  to 
glance  in  his  direction,  let  alone  to  engage  him 
in  conversation. 

Observing  her  apparent  lack  of  interest, 
Pete  sauntered  out  of  the  door,  and  prepared 
to  bathe  his  face  in  snow,  considering  it  more 
effective  in  stimulating  his  bearded  skin  than 
water  would  be,  even  if  he  bothered  to  request 
some  of  the  old  Indian  woman. 

The  sight  that  greeted  him  as  he  walked 
into  the  open  left  nothing  by  way  of  stimulation 
for  the  expected  rub  of  snow.  There  before 
him  stretched  an  expanse  of  mountain  scenery 
that  seemed  to  separate  him  entirely  from  his 
aching  limbs  and  drowsy  head  as  though  by  the 
touch  of  a  magic  wand.  Champagne  of  the 
rarest  vintage  was  never  more  pleasing  to  his 
taste  than  the  fresh  mountain  air  now  felt  to 
his  nostrils  and  lungs.  Even  his  aching  muscles 
seemed  to  become  promises  of  new  strength, 
rather  than  reminders  of  his  late  journey  as 
he  gazed  on  the  inspiring  scene. 

He  had  come  out  prepared  to  look  upon  a 
tortuous  trail  that  had  punished  him  so  re 
lentlessly  the  night  before.  Instead  he  thrilled 
with  pride  as  he  looked  down  upon  the  winding 
gulch  through  which  he  had  battled  his  way. 

The  deep  swish  of  gurgling  waters  alone 
broke  the  charm  of  the  morning  stillness.  The 
stream,  as  though  shrinking  with  fear  from  the 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  171 

broad  white  expanse  about  it  tunneled  its  way 
beneath  a  covering  of  ice  and  snow,  and  only 
at  one  place  did  it  show  itself.  In  this  lone 
spot  the  waters  seemed  black  and  cruel,  and 
as  he  watched  them  sweep  beneath  their  white 
covering,  his  mind  pictured  the  insidious  work 
of  the  promoters,  also  carrying  on  their  work 
of  black  deception  beneath  the  white  veneer  of 
law  and  glittering  paper.  He  thought  of 
Hawkins — benevolent  old  sage  of  the  moun 
tains,  struggling  against  hopeless  odds  to  retain 
his  heritage  in  the  hills,  even  now,  in  all  proba 
bility,  lying  in  an  untimely  grave.  From 
Hawkins  his  mind  shifted  to  the  form  of  his 
dream  girl — she  who  had  administered  to  his 
fevered  brow  when  his  overtaxed  nerves  and 
body  sagged  limply  by  the  bedside  in  the  prison 
house.  And  then  another  picture,  this  time  of 
the  same  dream  girl  whose  laughing  blue 
eyes  were  sad  and  still;  whose  face,  once  lovely 
in  its  youth,  was  drawn  with  lines  of  worry  and 
care.  Hands  tender  and  warm,  fit  only  for  acts 
of  mercy  and  love,  in  the  new  mental  picture, 
seemed  cold,  white  and  thin.  He  saw  it  all  as 
he  stood  there — gazing  into  the  swirling  black 
waters  of  the  stream.  And  as  he  gazed  his 
thoughts  turned  inward  and  searched  out  his 
very  heart.  How  empty  and  barren  his  life 
had  been!  How  devoid  of  soul-satisfying 
achievement!  Yet  the  thought  failed,  as  was 


172  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

its  wont  so  oft  before,  to  carry  with  it  the  bit 
ter  pangs  of  self-condemnation — the  pangs  that 
had  driven  him  forth  on  his  mad  effort  to  escape 
himself.  No,  he  could  expose  his  very  soul 
now  it  seemed — even  to  the  sacred  purity  of  na 
ture,  and  feel  that  all  was  well.  Only  the 
yearning  for  achievement  remained,  a  yearning 
that  now  seemed  to  take  possession  of  him  as 
nothing  else  had  ever  done.  He  had  felt  the 
urge  before,  but  only  a  slight  flush  compared 
with  the  fever  that  seized  him  now.  And  al 
ways  before  the  promptings  had  sent  him 
searching  for  he  knew  not  what,  while  now  the 
fire  within  pointed  the  way.  He  had  always 
lived,  the  urge  seemed  to  tell  him,  for  this  very 
day,  for  these  very  hills  that  stretched  majestic 
ally  before  him;  and  for  service  to  his  fellow 
men  and  to  the  holy  cause  of  purging  the  moun 
tains  of  the  curse  of  the  wolves  of  Wall  Street, 
the  wildcat  promoters  who  preyed  on  the  credu 
lity  of  small  investors  on  the  one  hand — and  on 
the  small  mine  owners  on  the  other.  Since  his 
very  first  night  in  Moapa  he  had  been  thrown 
against  them,  it  seemed.  Coming  to  Montana 
as  he  had  in  an  uncertain  effort  to  run  away 
from  his  own  self-inflicted  worries,  he  found 
himself  forgetting  them  in  contemplation  of 
how  he  could  share  the  troubles  of  others,  of 
Hawkins,  if  he  were  alive,  and  of  Tarn,  who 
seemed  so  strangely  enmeshed  in  the  toils  of 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  173 

the  Salmon  River  Gold  Company.  The  perils 
and  hardships  of  the  past  week  had  done 
much  to  erase  from  his  nature  what  little  re 
mained  of  self-centered  interest  and  concern  for 
his  own  affairs.  In  its  place  had  come  a  yearn 
ing  for  more  of  the  whole-hearted  faith  and 
confidence  shown  him  by  Brud  Hawkins,  the 
man  of  the  hills.  He  longed  for  an  opportunity 
to  share  this  man's  burdens,  which  after  all 
seemed  to  have  become  wholly  his  own. 

With  a  long  gaze  at  the  wonders  of  radiant 
nature  in  winter  time,  Pete  completed  his  toilet 
in  the  cold  soft  snow  and  returned  to  the  little 
shack,  where  the  welcome  aroma  of  breakfast 
almost  tempted  him  to  pinch  the  mahogany 
cheek  of  the  old  Indian,  by  way  of  appreciation. 
Instead,  he  took  the  place  at  the  table  that  had 
been  provided  for  him,  and  devoted  his  entire 
attention  to  the  steaming  oatmeal  and  dried 
fish  that  the  woman  brought  smoking  hot,  with 
corn  biscuits,  from  the  fire. 

The  meal  finished,  he  set  about  in  as  skillful 
a  manner  as  he  could  muster,  learning  what  the 
old  Indian  knew  of  the  characters  he  felt  must 
figure  in  his  immediate  future. 


CHAPTER  XII 

IC^OR  long  weary  days,  days  that  merged  into 
-*•  weeks,  Pete  bent  over  his  work  in  the 
Dead  Horse  Mine.  Finding  on  his  arrival 
there  only  two  men,  both  discontented  and 
shiftless  drifters,  he  accepted  the  burden  of 
carrying  on  the  largest  share  of  the  work 
himself. 

He  found  the  workings  to  be  little  more 
than  a  rather  well  developed  prospect  with  one 
main  tunnel  following  vein  matter  for  probably 
one  hundred  yards  into  the  slope  of  the  moun 
tain.  This  tunnel  ended  abruptly,  however,  and 
Ham,  a  seasoned  old  miner,  who  had  long  since 
lost  interest  in  everything  save  the  avoidance 
of  starvation,  had  started  Pete  digging  what 
he  termed  a  cross  cut,  a  sort  of  new  tunnel, 
directly  at  right  angles  to  the  old  one,  insisting 
that  Pete  wheel  the  muck  from  the  new  dig 
gings  into  the  space  between  its  opening  and 
the  face  or  end  of  the  old  tunnel. 

Before  many  weeks  had  passed  Pete  became 
hardened  to  his  work,  and  took  great  pride  in 
the  bulge  of  muscles  that  made  even  his  over 
sized  flannel  shirts  seem  small.  There  were 
no  regular  hours  for  work,  the  men  usually 
starting  early  in  the  morning  and  working  until 
they  had  driven  in  the  new  tunnel  or  cross  cut 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  175 

an  allotted  distance.  If  the  "going  was  good" 
as  the  men  said,  it  meant  that  much  more 
leisure;  if  the  work  was  hard,  and  it  usually 
was,  owing  to  unusual  formations  of  the  rock 
encountered,  the  men  continued  working  longer. 
Once  each  week  a  runner  came  from  Salmon 
Tooth  Pass,  checking  up  the  work  done  at  the 
mine,  and  bringing  to  the  workers  food,  cloth 
ing,  old  magazines,  and  such  luxuries  as  the  men 
might  send  for  from  the  commissary  below. 
At  first  Pete  made  no  effort  to  obtain  informa 
tion  from  his  companions,  deciding  it  would  be 
best  first  to  earn  as  much  of  their  confidence  as 
possible.  The  wisdom  of  his  policy  was  demon 
strated  with  the  first  visit  of  the  runner  whom 
Pete  observed  talking  covertly  and  at  some 
length  with  Ham.  That  they  were  talking 
about  him,  he  had  no  doubt  as  he  quietly  ob 
served  the  ill-concealed  glances  and  motions  of 
the  two  men.  However,  he  noticed  a  much 
better  and  more  friendly  attitude  on  the  part  of 
the  two  miners  toward  him  after  the  runner  had 
left.  For  some  time  he  wondered  how  Buller 
had  squared  matters  with  Jenkins  and  others  to 
whom  he  was  undoubtedly  accountable.  A  re 
mark  passed  quite  casually  by  Ham,  in  which 
he  mentioned  "breaking  rock"  with  a  significant 
smile,  cleared  his  mind  on  this  point.  He 
recollected  that  the  Gold  Company  seemed  to 
specialize  in  having  fugitives  from  justice  in  its 


176  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

service.  Buller  had  apparently  used  his  first 
hand  knowledge  of  this  policy,  in  arranging  a 
safe  berth  for  Pete.  Nevertheless,  Pete  had 
little  doubt  that  after  all  he  was  still  virtually  a 
prisoner,  and  that  all  concerned  knew  him  to  be 
Peter  Alden  and  not  Philip  West. 

Before  long  the  two  miners  seemed  to  con 
sider  Pete  one  of  themselves,  and  talked  freely 
with  him.  Little  by  little  he  picked  up  odds 
and  ends  of  the  crooked  career  of  the  Salmon 
River  Gold  Company.  Several  circumstances, 
which  had  puzzled  him  deeply  were  explained. 
He  had  never  before  been  able  to  understand 
why  practically  all  of  the  old  placer  miners, 
men  independent  and  prosperous  in  their  own 
way,  with  flumes,  shovels  and  pans,  had  been 
willing  to  relinquish  their  holdings  to  Brown 
ing's  Company.  Kloch,  Ham's  companion, 
innocently  enough  furnished  an  excellent  ex 
planation.  Pete  deducted  that  through  some 
means  or  other,  he,  Kloch,  had  title  at  one  time 
to  a  bit  of  placer  ground  in  the  Gulch  below. 
Browning,  Kloch  explained,  had  made  the  same 
offer  and  terms  with  him  as  with  all  the  others. 
Pete,  showing  unusual  interest  in  the  transac 
tion,  asked  to  see  the  contract  in  the  matter,  and 
Kloch  proudly  and  obligingly  furnished  him 
with  it. 

Pete  found  one  important  provision  in  the 
paper  that  interested  him  profoundly.  A  para- 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  177 

graph  providing  that  in  addition  to  a  considera 
tion  of  stock,  the  Company  specifically  agreed 
to  erect  a  huge  dredge  on  the  placer  property 
consolidated  by  them,  and  to  have  it  in  opera 
tion  by  the  last  day  of  the  coming  January. 
Even  the  specifications  of  the  dredge  were  set 
down  in  detail.  Pete  knew,  even  from  his 
limited  experience  in  mining,  what  a  tremendous 
outlay  of  capital  the  project  involved. 

From  this  point  on  he  pressed  his  search 
for  further  information,  and  once  he  had  been 
able  to  engage  the  runner  in  lengthy  conversa 
tion.  From  him  he  learned  that  even  the  work 
men  at  the  pass  were  aware  of  something  de 
cidedly  wrong  at  headquarters.  There  had 
been  rumors  of  trouble  with  some  of  the  old 
placer  miners,  and  the  guards  at  the  pass  were 
finding  it  more  and  more  difficult  to  keep  men 
from  entering  the  gulch.  For  some  time  the 
story  of  a  landslide  had  sufficed,  but  lately  new 
excuses  had  to  be  made  nearly  every  week. 

His  great  opportunity  came,  however,  one 
afternoon  nearly  a  week  following  his  talk  with 
the  runner.  On  this  day,  Pete  and  his  two  fel 
low-workmen  were  surprised  by  an  unexpected 
visit  from  a  group  of  six  men,  all  strangers  to 
Pete. 

Two  of  them  were  obviously  laborers, 
brought  along  to  carry  what  equipment  the 
other  four  might  require  for  the  journey  in 


178  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

addition  to  the   small  haversacks  they  them 
selves  carried. 

Pete  was  as  much  impressed  by  the  sudden 
appearance  of  the  four  clean-shaven  carefully 
groomed  visitors  as  though  he  himself  had 
always  lived  in  the  hills. 

The  visitors  proved  to  be  J.  D.  Browning, 
himself,  distinguished  from  the  rest  of  the  party 
by  the  soft  pink  skin  of  his  plump  face  and  the 
pudgy  white  hands  that  nervously  tugged  at  his 
well  groomed  mustache.  Another  of  the  party, 
one  constantly  in  his  immediate  proximity,  Pete 
found  to  be  a  Mr.  Sharpe.  As  Pete  carefully 
took  in  every  detail  of  his  features  he  marveled 
at  the  appropriateness  of  the  name.  A  small 
oblong  head,  from  the  half  bald  portion  of 
which  steam  arose  in  a  thin  vapor  as  the  owner 
removed  his  fur  cap,  seemed  to  converge  into 
a  long  beak-like  nose  with  eyes  on  either  side 
intended  apparently  for  no  other  purpose  than 
to  emphasize  the  presence  of  the  combined  nose 
and  forehead.  The  pallor  of  his  face,  too, 
blended  perfectly  with  the  dirt-flecked  snow 
about  the  entrance  of  the  tunnel. 

Both  Browning  and  Sharpe  snapped  out 
questions  at  the  other  two  who  stood  with  legs 
wide  apart,  rolling  and  unrolling  numerous 
blue-prints  that  emerged  in  astonishingly  large 
quantities  from  folds  in  their  pockets.  It  soon 
became  apparent  that  one  was  Peleg  Demons, 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  179 

Company  engineer,  and  the  other  the  company 
lawyer,  whose  name  Pete  finally  learned  was 
Houston. 

After  much  sweeping  of  arms  and  com 
parison  of  notes,  interspersed  with  words  Pete 
could  not  catch,  the  visitors  finally  folded  their 
documents  and  advanced  into  the  entrance  of 
the  tunnel. 

Demons  called  loudly  for  candles,  then 
grabbed  the  ones  offered  by  Pete  with  the  con 
tempt  and  over-bearing  manner  of  a  man  pass 
ing  on  to  inferiors  abuse  and  derision  he  him 
self  is  accustomed  to  receive. 

What  happened  inside  the  tunnel  Pete  could 
not  know.  But  at  the  end  of  an  hour  the  four 
men  came  out  puffing  and  perspiring  from  ex 
ercise  more  strenuous  than  mere  walking. 

Another  conference  took  place  at  the  mouth 
of  the  tunnel  and  this  time  Pete  saw  to  it  that 
he  kept  within  hearing  distance. 

A  blacksmith  shop,  or  rather  a  crude  shelter 
over  a  forge,  used  for  heating  dull  steel  picks 
and  drills,  faced  in  such  a  way  toward  the  par 
ticular  spot  near  which  the  four  men  stood,  that 
the  sound  of  their  voices  carried  perfectly.  Pete 
had  discovered  this  listening  post  quite  by  acci 
dent,  during  his  first  few  days  at  the  mine,  and 
had  in  fact  used  it  frequently  for  the  very  pur 
pose  it  now  served  him.  Pete  listened  eagerly 
for  the  expected  words  and  was  soon  rewarded. 


180  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

Browning,  apparently  addressing  Demons, 
talked  first. 

"Well — there's  this  much  about  it,  De 
mons,  we  can't  move  that  muck  in  there  our 
selves.  These  fool  men  you've  got  up  here  are 
apparently  working.  Rather  unusual,  but 
nevertheless  we've  got  to  look  at  that  pay  stuff 
you  say  is  in  there." 

"But  none  of  the  three  know  it's  there," 
the  engineer  replied,  "don't  you  think  it's  dan 
gerous?  Barclay,  the  one  who  ran  into  it, 
swears  he  covered  it  up  at  once,  and  told  no 
one.  He's  been  where  he  can't  talk  for  weeks 
now." 

"Well — we  can't  keep  it  covered  up,  for 
ever,"  Sharpe  broke  in  irritably.  "Houston 
here  says  he's  gone  as  far  as  he  can  in  fixin'  the 
title — it's  as  much  our  mine  now  as  it  ever  will 
be  unless  you  fellows  can  produce  that  Brud 
Hawkins,  or  bring  him  back  to  life  or  some 
thing." 

Browning  turned  sharply  to  Houston,  who, 
so  far  as  Pete  could  make  out  had  said  little 
or  nothing  since  his  arrival. 

"Do  you  think  it's  safe  to  open  her  up, 
Ern?"  he  asked 

The  lawyer  had  plainly  been  asked  this 
same  question  many  times  before,  judging  from 
the  irritable  manner  in  which  he  snapped  out 
an  emphatic,  "No." 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  181 

At  this  Sharpe  gave  way  to  a  tirade  of 
abuse,  cursing  himself  for  getting  mixed  up  in 
the  deal  first  of  all,  then  including  Browning 
and  Demons  in  his  denunciation,  and  then 
ending  by  declaring  that  if  Houston  couldn't 
figure  some  way  of  releasing  the  title  to  the 
accursed  mine,  the  whole  project,  Houston  in 
cluded,  could  go  to  hell. 

Browning  rose  to  the  occasion,  and  as  his 
partner  lost  control  of  himself  Browning  now 
gave  the  appearance  of  complete  mastery  of 
the  situation,  and  of  himself  most  of  all,  as  he 
answered  Sharpe : 

"Now,  Bill,  forget  it.  You  don't  mean  that. 
If  this  thing  blows  up  you  know  and  I  know 
and  Houston  and  Demons  know  there's  only 
once  place  we  can  all  go.  And  that  place  ain't 
hell,  exactly, — it's  worse.  It's  got  bars  on  the 
doors!" 

Such  a  statement,  coming  as  it  did  from  the 
leader,  caused  a  painful  silence  to  fall  over  the 
entire  group.  Browning  quietly  tugged  at  his 
mustache  as  he  watched  the  effect  of  his  words. 
Sharpe  pouted  sullenly,  and  ground  a  cigar 
ette  to  powder  beneath  the  heel  of  his  boot. 
Houston  alone  batted  not  an  eye,  and  gave  no 
sign  of  emotion  of  any  kind. 

"A  fine  crowd,"  Pete  mused  to  himself,  as 
he  took  in  the  silent  four  from  the  tail  of  his 
eyes. 


182  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

Peleg  Demons,  weakest  of  the  lot,  was  first 
to  break  the  silence. 

"Is — is — it — so  bad  as  that?'9  he  faltered, 
looking  earnestly  at  Browning. 

"Oh,  hell,  Peleg,  don't  come  with  that  inno 
cent  stuff  now — you  know  what  you've  done 
to  half  the  hold-outs  you've  man-handled.  How 
many  are  at  the  bottom  of  old  Dan  Morgan's 
shaft?  You'd  be  lucky  to  go  to  jail." 

Demons  winced  at  the  words  and  paled 
perceptibly,  as  he  answered,  "Well — I'm  for 
doing  anything  to  keep  'er  from  busting — just 
say  the  word." 

Sharpe,  apparently  recovered  from  his  sud 
den  temper,  long  enough  at  least  to  find  his 
voice,  lit  another  cigarette,  and  talked  between 
puffs. 

"Come,  boys,  no  use  talking  this  way,"  he 
urged  in  a  conciliatory  manner.  "This  thing 
isn't  going  to  bust.  None  of  us  needs  to  worry 
if  we  stick  together  and  play  the  game.  But 
we've  got  to  take  chances,  we've  simply  got  to. 
Now  tell  me  again,  Houston,  just  where  do 
we  stand,  and  for  heaven's  sake  talk.  Let's 
get  this  thing  straight,  once  for  all.  Where  do 
we  stand  without  this  stuff  here?"  From  the 
flick  of  ashes  sent  in  the  direction  of  the  tunnel, 
the  "here"  referred  to  the  mine. 

"We  have  two  months  to  install  a  quarter- 
million  dollar  dredge  on  our  placer  ground,  or 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  183 

we  lose  it,"  Houston  replied.  'That's  that. 
You  and  your  Wall  Street  concern  have  sold 
more  than  that  valuation  of  stock,  but  our  con 
cern  has  embezzled  the  money  and  lost  it  to 
some  other  crowd  of  Wall  Street  pirates." 

"Not  that  part  of  it,  Ern,"  Sharpe  inter 
rupted.  "I  mean  how  do  we  stand  on  the  con 
tracts  and  things?" 

It  was  Sharpe's  turn  now  to  join  the  panic- 
stricken  Demons. 

Silent  Ern  Houston  continued:  "And,  if 
we  don't  make  good  the  money  to  the  stock 
holders,  or  build  our  dredges,  it's  jail  for  all 
of  us — maybe  more  for  some,"  he  added,  look 
ing  furtively  from  Demons  to  Browning. 

No  one  listening  to  Houston's  talk  could 
fail  to  get  the  full  meaning  of  his  words  or  to 
doubt  the  seasoned  judgment  behind  them  as 
he  continued: 

"We  have  one  chance  of  getting  out  with 
our  skin  and  with  money.  That  chance  is  at 
the  bottom  of  this  tunnel.  If  Demons'  story  of 
a  strike  is  right,  we've  got  a  chance.  I'm  no 
miner,  and  I  don't  know.  So  far  as  the  title 
to  this  property  is  concerned  we  don't  own  it. 
It  stands  in  the  name  of  Brud  Hawkins.  We 
ordered  Hawkins  put  away  and  Duller  Garret 
says  Slim  Eliot  did  it."  It  seemed  to  Pete  that 
Houston  mentioned  the  deed  with  distinct 
relish.  "If  Hawkins  is  dead,  and  doesn't  come 


184  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

to  life,  I've  got  the  legal  end  of  getting  the 
title  fixed.  If  he  does  turn  up,  well,  that's 
something  else  again." 

Browning  took  up  the  subject  where 
Houston  left  it.  "Now  Hawkins  never  did 
know  what  he  has  here,  that  much  is  certain, 
isn't  it,  Demons?"  he  asked. 

Demons  assured  him  it  was. 

"Now,  that  being  the  case,"  Browning  con 
tinued,  "I  agree  with  Sharpe.  Let's  bring  a 
crew  up  here  and  get  at  this  gold.  Let's  take 
a  chance  on  the  legal  end — we've  got  to  take  a 
chance  somewhere." 

"Why  not  make  it  appear  that  the  stuff  is 
coming  from  some  other  mine — we  can  get  a 
hole  in  the  ground  somewhere  for  a  dummy," 
Demons  suggested. 

"Sounds  reasonable,"  Browning  replied, 
"anyhow,  you  will  be  here  to  fix  that.  And 
now,  boys,"  turning  to  the  others,  "we're  safe, 
if  nobody  talks.  I'll  put  Garrett,  Jenkins  and 
the  whole  crowd  on  the  lookout  for  strangers. 
They  think  they've  been  on  the  job  before. 
They  will  know  it  when  they  get  through  this 
time.  Jenkins  is  in  the  gap.  Nobody  on  this 
side  will  get  further  than  him.  Then  there's 
Buller  on  the  outside,  and  something's  got  him 
smelling  for  strangers  lately  like  a  lost  dog. 
Won't  hurt  to  jog  him  up  a  bit,  at  that.  Then 
there's  old  Hatty  in  the  gulch.  She'll  spot 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  185 

anybody  we  don't.  She  tipped  me  on  the  last 
one.  He's  here  now,  but  he's  all  right,  we  can 
send  him  up  anytime  we  want  to.  Long  as  he's 
working  here  he's  alright.  Rocks  fall  pretty 
bad  in  the  tunnel,  anyhow,  don't  they,  De 
mons?"  He  raised  his  brows  to  the  engineer 
significantly  as  he  asked  the  question. 

"Just  as  you  say,"  Demons  answered. 

"Well,"  Browning  continued,  "guess  that's 
our  line  up.  Houston  here  don't  say  much, 
but  I  know  him.  Even  if  the  old  Gopher  does 
put  in  an  appearance,  and  Eliot's  made  ghosts 
out  of  dozens  like  him,  he'd  have  a  hell  of  a 
time  getting  his  legal  stuff  fixed  up,  eh, 
Houston?" 

The  lawyer  seemed  pleased  at  the  implied 
flattery  of  his  chief  and  smiled  meekly. 

"Well,  I'll  say  we're  air  tight,  boys,  we're 
air  tight.  Now  let's  get  the  men  in  here,  and 
see  what's  under  that  muck  in  the  tunnel. 
Demons,  if  the  stuff  isn't  there — ."  Browning's 
look  must  have  finished  the  sentence,  as  Pete 
heard  no  more. 

The  conference  thus  ended,  Pete,  along 
with  his  two  companions  and  the  two  new 
workmen,  were  ordered  to  dig  at  least  a  pas 
sageway  over  the  top  of  the  pile  of  stone  and 
muck  that  had  been  piled  for  fully  fifty  feet  in 
front  of  the  face  of  the  tunnel  and  were  prom- 


186  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

ised  pay  for  an  extra  shift  if  they  could  have 
it  cleared  before  midnight. 

After  several  hours  of  hard  labor  Pete  was 
one  of  the  first  to  plunge  his  shovel  into  loose 
dirt  directly  before  the  base  of  the  tunnel's 
abrupt  end.  He  alone,  of  the  five  workmen, 
knew  why  the  debris  in  front  of  the  tunnel  was 
being  cleared  away,  it  seemed.  Pete,  however, 
realized  full  well  that  he  was  nearing  the  end 
of  the  work  and  bent  anxiously  over  the  new 
rock  he  uncovered.  For  fully  a  minute  he 
stopped,  sheer  wonder  holding  him  motionless, 
as  his  eyes  traveled  over  the  white  and  gold 
of  the  ore  before  him. 

"Well,  what  you  got  so  all  fired  in- 
terestin' ?"  the  voice  of  Demons  sounded  over 
him,  and  before  he  could  answer,  he  felt  strong 
hands  close  over  his  shoulders.  A  second  more 
and  he  was  sprawling  on  his  back  in  the  muck 
of  the  tunnel,  Demons  taking  his  place  be 
fore  the  golden  treasure,  picking  here  and  there 
with  a  little  hand  tool  at  the  vein.  At  length 
he  gathered  up  the  fragments  he  had  picked 
off  and  ordered  Pete  to  precede  him  out  of  the 
tunnel,  calling  to  the  other  workmen  to  follow. 

Something  told  Pete,  as  he  made  toward 
the  mouth  of  the  tunnel,  that  he  was  already 
slated  as  number  one  on  the  casualty  list  of  the 
Dead  Horse  Mine. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

A  S  Pete  and  Demons  followed  by  the  other 
miners  made  their  way  out  of  the  tunnel 
Pete  took  rapid  stock  of  the  situation  in  which 
he  found  himself.  He  could  easily  imagine 
what  the  sight  of  real  gold  would  do  for  Sharpe 
and  Browning;  and  he  knew  only  too  well  the 
influence  these  men  exerted  over  hirelings  such 
as  Demons,  Houston,  Garret  and  others. 

As  he  stumbled  along  over  the  uneven  floor 
of  the  tunnel  he  thought  of  Hawkins,  pioneer 
of  the  hills  who  for  years  had  struggled  against 
all  manner  of  hardships  for  this  very  day  when 
his  judgment  would  be  vindicated,  vindicated 
by  the  discovery  of  gold  in  quantities  that 
probably  even  he  had  never  dreamed  of.  He 
recalled  the  amused  smile  that  played  over 
Hawkins'  face  when  he  related  how  friend  and 
foe  alike  had  derided  him  for  spending  his  life 
searching  for  gold  in  the  hills  when  it  lay  all 
around  him  in  the  placer  ground  of  the  gulch 
below.  What  a  queer  twist  of  fate  it  was,  that 
now  brought  forth  gold  in  this  same  despised 
"gopher  hole,"  to  bring  ruin  to  the  same  placer 
miners  who  had  so  long  made  Hawkins  the 
butt  of  jests  and  good-natured  fun,  and,  Pete 
doubted  not,  oftentimes  abuse. 


188  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

He  found  comfort  in  the  thought  that 
Hawkins  might  not  be  dead  after  all;  that  he 
might  still  come  back  to  the  fruits  of  victory! 
Yet  even  as  he  thought  it  the  words  of  Brown 
ing  sounded  again  in  his  ears.  "Even  if  he 
does  come  back,  he'll  have  a  hell  of  a  time 
getting  his  legal  affairs  fixed  up,"  he  had  said. 

"Certainly  a  man's  job  this  time,"  Pete 
muttered  to  himself  as  all  of  the  complications 
of  the  situation  came  to  him.  He  thought  of 
Moapa  and  of  the  chances  Browning  might 
have  obtaining  justice  in  a  legal  fight  there; 
but  Buller,  Little  Phil  Alguin,  and  a  dozen  other 
faces  he  remembered  all  too  well,  loomed  even 
larger  in  his  mind's  eye  than  Moapa  itself,  and 
he  dismissed  the  thought.  Then,  as  though  con 
serving  even  brain  power,  his  thoughts  retreated 
from  the  far-stretched  possibility  of  a  legal 
battle  in  Moapa  and  roamed  again  in  the  hills. 
Here,  too,  they  came  to  a  sudden  and  abrupt 
ending,  brought  up  sharp  at  the  Salmon  Tooth 
Pass  by  the  cabin  of  Jenkins.  Then,  scurrying 
back  along  the  trail  just  as  he  himself  had  done, 
they  dwelled  for  a  moment  at  the  little  snow- 
covered  shack  of  Indian  Hatty.  Even  she  in 
the  service  of  Browning!  He  thought  the 
thing  incredible,  yet  he  knew  it  to  be  true  !  And 
as  he  pictured  further  the  fight  ahead,  intangible 
and  indefinite  as  it  was,  he  knew  it  would  be 
the  supreme  test  of  his  manhood;  and  uncon- 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  189 

sciously  the  consequences  of  losing,  mingled 
with  his  thoughts.  Invariably  they  carried  him 
back  to  San  Francisco.  He  smiled  as  he  pic 
tured  Judge  Stivers,  and  how  he  must  have 
hopped  up  and  down  with  excitement  on  receipt 
of  the  mysterious  letter  written  from  the  prison 
shack!  What  were  his  father  and  the  Judge 
doing?  Something!  Most  assuredly  some 
thing!  He  had  always  marveled  at  the  super- 
knowledge  of  human  nature  the  Judge  pos 
sessed,  and  at  his  great  ability  to  strike  quickly 
and  accurately  right  at  the  heart  of  things. 

Lights  at  the  mouth  of  the  tunnel  at  last 
loomed  up  large  before  him  and  his  train  of 
thoughts  soon  were  lost  in  the  excited  exchange 
of  words  and  ejaculations  that  met  his  ears. 
Before  he  could  fully  collect  his  wandering 
thoughts  again,  Demons,  rushing  past  him, 
called  excitedly,  then  came  back  into  the  tunnel 
with  Browning  and  Sharpe  hurrying  on  behind. 
The  miners,  none  of  whom  had  shared  with 
Pete  the  sight  of  naked  rich  gold  now  stood 
about  for  a  few  moments  expressing  only  a  mild 
interest  in  the  work,  before  hurrying  off  to  the 
bunk  room  in  the  long  low  house  as  though  they 
feared  a  shortage  of  sleeping  accommodations 
might  develop. 

As  they  passed  him  Pete  scanned  their  faces 
in  the  forlorn  hope  that  some  one  among  them 
might  impress  him  as  a  possible  confidant.  But 


190  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

Browning  or  Demons,  whoever  it  was  that 
hired  them,  was  a  master  at  selecting  men,  for 
neither  of  the  two  new  men  satisfied  Pete  as 
he  turned  dejectedly  from  his  vantage  point, 
and  made  to  follow  the  last  of  the  men  to  the 
house.  As  he  turned,  he  bumped  full  into  Ern 
Houston,  and  he  knew  from  the  look  the  lat 
ter  gave  him  that  his  actions  had  been  closely 
watched.  He  apologized  profusely,  but  the 
thin  slit  of  a  mouth  in  the  sphinx-like  face  of 
Houston  did  not  open;  instead,  the  pearl  han 
dle  of  a  revolver  showed  ominously  from  in 
side  the  flap  of  the  lawyer's  coat.  Feeling 
more  than  ever  the  danger  of  his  position, 
Pete  lost  no  time  in  seeking  his  bunk  where  he 
lay,  completely  dressed,  thinking  hard  and 
awaiting  developments. 

Before  long,  possibly  an  hour  or  so  he 
imagined,  he  heard  sounds  of  men  stamping 
snow  or  mud  noisily  from  their  boots  on  the 
little  porch  that  served  as  an  entrance  to  the 
bunk  house.  Soon  Browning,  Sharpe  and 
Houston  entered,  preceded  by  Demons  who 
carried  two  kerosene  lamps.  Inside  the  room 
the  party  hesitated,  as  Browning's  eyes  swept 
about,  dwelling  at  some  length  on  the  men  oc 
cupying  bunks  along  the  wall. 

"Hell,  can't  talk  in  here,"  he  said,  as  he 
turned  an  inquiring  look  on  Demons.  "Isn't 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  191 

there  a  shack  or  something  where  we  can  talk 
privately?" 

"There's  the  old  dining  room,"  Demons  re 
plied,  "nobody  in  there.  Got  no  cook  up  here 
any  more.  Let's  go  there." 

The  party  acted  on  the  engineer's  sugges 
tion,  and  followed  him  through  a  door  that  led 
from  the  sleeping  quarters  to  the  adjoining 
kitchen  and  dining  room,  where  they  entered 
immediately  into  an  animated  discussion,  frag 
ments  of  which  drifted  into  the  bunk  house. 
Twice  Pete  heard  Sharpe  mention  "high  grad 
ing" — a  term  he  himself  had  come  to  know 
thoroughly  through  the  daily  swapping  of  yarns 
with  Ham  and  Kloch.  He  quickly  surmised  the 
meaning  of  the  words  now,  as  he  pictured  the 
men  gouging  deep  into  the  golden  treasure  of 
the  mine,  in  frantic  haste  to  get  as  much  of  the 
spoils  as  possible  before  any  complications  of 
ownership,  remote  as  they  were,  might  arise. 

"Fake  up  a  shell  for  a  dredge  on  the 
claims,"  was  another  expression  that  brought 
a  weight  of  meaning  to  him  as  he  lay,  strain 
ing  every  faculty  in  an  effort  to  catch  each 
word.  "Dirty  vandals,"  he  cursed,  as  these 
words  came  to  him.  "Not  contented  with  steal 
ing  thousands  from  stockholders  you  now  would 
steal  the  miners'  gold  and  then  build  only  a 
faked  shell  in  place  of  the  dredge  you  agreed 
to  erect  on  their  placer  claims!" 


192  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

At  length  the  talking  quieted  down — some 
one  uttered  a  loud  satisfied  yawn,  and  suggested 
going  to  bed.  Following  this  the  light  reap 
peared  in  the  room,  where  for  several  minutes 
Demons  and  Houston  busied  themselves  drag 
ging  wire  bottomed  bunks  toward  the  narrow 
door  that  led  into  the  dining  room.  An  hour 
later  Pete  heard  loud  snores  and  meaningless 
muttering  of  words  in  dreams,  and  he  knew  the 
men  about  him  were  fast  asleep. 

Stealthily  he  pushed  the  blankets  to  the 
floor  beside  him.  Then,  making  certain  of  his 
gun,  he  crept  silently  over  the  side  of  the  bunk 
to  the  floor.  Carrying  his  boots  in  one  hand, 
and  as  much  of  his  pack  equipment  as  he  could 
safely  manage  in  the  other,  he  stole  toward 
the  door.  Several  times  during  even  the  short 
distance  he  had  to  travel  over  the  rough  spruce 
boards  he  stopped  and  listened  attentively. 
But  all  seemed  well,  and  in  a  moment  more  he 
found  himself  outside  the  building  with  his 
stocking  feet  sinking  deep  into  soft  fluffy  snow. 
Great  flakes  floated  silently  down  on  his  face 
as  he  searched  in  vain  through  the  intense  dark 
ness  for  a  trace  of  the  moon.  Making  his  way 
cautiously  through  the  snow  he  found  the  shel 
tered  boards  of  the  blacksmith  shop  where,  by 
the  aid  of  candle  lights,  he  spread  the  canvas 
of  his  pack  on  the  bare  ground  floor  and  took 
careful  inventory  of  his  equipment.  Twice  he 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  193 

stole  back  into  the  sleeping  quarters,  each  time 
emerging  with  additional  articles  of  wearing 
apparel;  ammunition  for  his  own  and  another 
gun  he  managed  to  secure,  besides  a  quantity 
of  dried  meat  and  canned  food  taken  from  long 
boxes  of  provisions  that  had  been  kept  as  emer 
gency  rations.  Quickly,  but  with  extreme  care, 
he  rolled  his  pack  and  fitted  it  to  his  back.  Ap 
parently  satisfied  with  the  way  it  felt  he  unslung 
it  again  from  his  back,  snuffed  his  candles,  put 
ting  the  two  he  had  been  burning  together  with 
a  dozen  or  so  others  in  his  pocket  before  he 
circled  several  times  about  the  little  shelter. 
Realizing  that  darkness  and  falling  snow  meant 
as  much  to  him  as  liberty  itself,  he  finally  placed 
the  pack  on  top  of  the  shack,  tightened  his  belt, 
and  securely  tied  the  laces  of  his  high  leather 
boots.  Then  with  the  stealth  of  an  Indian,  he 
entered  the  sleeping  quarters  once  more  where 
with  heart  pounding  fast,  and  every  nerve  a 
tingle,  he  crawled  directly  across  the  floor  of 
the  sleeping  quarters,  and  on  into  the  dining 
room  beyond. 

In  the  intense  darkness  he  bumped  his  head 
full  into  a  bunk  that  stood  just  inside  the  door. 
For  a  moment  he  halted  breathlessly,  his  hand 
on  the  holster  of  his  gun  ready  for  instant  ac 
tion.  But  the  occupant  of  the  bunk,  whoever 
he  was,  slept  deeply,  and  except  for  a  hasty 


194  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

turning  beneath  his  blankets,  gave  no  sign  of 
being  disturbed. 

Inch  by  inch  Pete  made  his  way  from  bunk 
to  bunk,  searching  deftly  with  his  hand  for 
clothes  and  haversacks.  The  bunk  against 
which  he  had  bumped  yielded  a  goodly  supply, 
and  as  he  felt  the  many  folds  and  soft  wool 
texture  of  the  coat,  he  knew  it  belonged  to 
Demons.  With  a  thrill  of  satisfaction  he  felt 
the  long  folds  of  blue  prints  in  the  pockets. 
Placing  the  coat  beneath  him  to  further  deaden 
the  sound  of  his  knee  bones  on  the  board  floor 
he  proceeded  to  search  for  the  remaining  bunks. 
For  fully  an  hour  he  continued  his  desperate 
work  until  at  length  he  had  in  one  pile  practi 
cally  all  of  the  clothing,  boots  and  hats  in 
cluded,  that  the  entire  party  possessed. 

Congratulating  himself  on  his  initial  suc 
cess,  he  repeated  the  venture  in  the  sleeping 
quarters  of  the  crew,  working  much  quicker 
than  in  the  room  beyond. 

It  was  only  a  matter  of  minutes  in  the  black 
smith  shop  until  all  papers  and  documents 
found  in  the  confiscated  clothing  entered 
the  pockets  of  his  own.  So  far,  his  plan 
was  working  well.  But  the  fact  that  every  one 
of  the  sleepers  kept  his  gun  beneath  his  pillow 
disturbed  him.  He  had  hoped,  though  it  took 
him  all  night,  to  secure  these  also.  Then,  too, 
there  were  electric  flashlights  among  them  and 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  195 

he  bit  his  lip  and  considered  again  going  into 
the  rooms  to  renew  his  search. 

Reason,  however,  overcame  the  zeal  of  the 
moment.  He  abandoned  the  idea  of  further 
search,  and  set  about  the  final  and  by  far  the 
most  dangerous  act  of  his  plan. 

Tying  all  of  the  stolen  clothing  in  a  large 
bundle,  which  he  threw  into  the  center  of  the 
tunnel,  he  made  certain  once  again  that  his  own 
pack  was  secure  on  the  roof  of  the  little  shop, 
and  prepared  for  a  final  and  extremely  impor 
tant  visit  to  the  bunk  house.  This  time  he  made 
for  the  kitchen  of  the  dining  room,  crawling 
with  even  greater  caution  than  before.  Two 
of  the  bunks  were  passed  and  he  began  to 
breathe  easily,  when  the  occupant  of  the  third 
one  suddenly  sat  bolt  upright  and  stared  quickly 
about  the  room.  Pete  hugged  the  floor  and 
let  his  body  and  limbs  sag  limply;  even  a  creak 
of  a  knee  joint  would  mean  his  finish  now! 

Someone  directly  over  his  head  spoke : 

"Matter  Ern?"     It  was  Browning's  voice. 

The  words  sounded  strangely  loud  in  the 
still  room. 

"Nothing.  Tho't  I  heard  someone  mov 
ing.  Guess  I  was  dreaming." 

Pete  recognized  Houston's  voice,  and  heard 
the  lawyer  yawn  and  settle  back  into  the  blan 
kets.  Pete  breathed  a  prayer  of  thankfulness 
at  the  sound,  only  an  instant  later  to  have  his 


196  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

heart  jump  as  though  to  leave  his  chest  entirely, 
as  Browning  sat  upright. 

"Sleepin'  rotten  myself,"  he  muttered. 
"Guess  I  need  a  cigarette." 

With  an  agony  of  suspense,  Pete  heard 
Browning's  hands  rasp  over  the  floor  in  evident 
search  for  his  coat. 

"Funny  where  my  damn  coat's  gone  to," 
he  remarked,  as  Pete  heard  him  move  closer 
to  the  edge  of  the  bed.  "Guess  I'll  have  to 
light  up  and  look  for  it." 

Houston  turned  on  his  side.  "Oh,  don't 
do  that,"  he  grunted  sleepily.  "Here — my 
coat's  right  near  my  pillow.  No  use  wakin'  the 
whole  crew  up — here." 

Quick  as  a  flash,  Pete  searched  his  own 
pockets  and  produced  a  cigarette  and  matches. 
He  was  none  too  soon,  for  the  shadowy  form 
of  Browning's  outstretched  hand  was  not 
twelve  inches  from  him  when  he  met  it  with 
the  cigarette  and  match. 

Browning's  fingers  closed  upon  them. 
"Thanks,  Ern,"  he  mumbled,  placing  the  cig 
arette  to  his  mouth.  "You're  always  a  handy 


man." 


Then  striking  the  match  with  a  thumb  nail 
he  made  a  cup  of  his  hands,  lit  his  cigarette, 
and  threw  the  dead  match  away. 

"Thanks?"  Houston  questioned  in  surprise. 
"What  are  you  thanking  me  for  ?  I  can't  find  my 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  197 

coat  either."  Pete  trembled  as  he  heard  the 
speaker  fumbling  about  with  his  hands  in  the 
darkness. 

"Oh,  well,  hell,  I've  got  the  cigarette,  any 
how,  Ern,"  Browning  grunted  between  puffs, 
"I'm  thanking  you  for  that,  I  don't  want  to 
smoke  your  coat.  You  damn  lawyers — a  man's 
even  got  to  specify  what  he's  thanking  you 
for!" 

This  ended  the  dialogue,  and  none  too 
soon,  for  to  Pete's  excited  senses  it  seemed  that 
everyone  in  both  rooms  was  turning  and  twist 
ing  at  once. 

He  felt  as  though  he  had  been  holding  his 
breath  all  night  as  now,  with  the  talking  evi 
dently  over,  he  took  a  quiet,  slow  breath  of  re 
lief  and  settled  down  to  rest  while  Browning 
smoked.  What  seemed  to  him  to  be  hours 
afterwards  he  noted  the  even  regular  breath 
ing  of  Houston,  and  heard  Browning  lean  far 
over  the  side  of  the  cot  and  extinguish  the 
butt  of  his  cigarette  on  the  floor. 

The  coast  clear  once  again  Pete  continued 
his  stealthy  maneuvering  across  the  floor,  this 
time  gaining  the  kitchen  without  further  inter 
ruptions. 

Taking  a  half  empty  flour  sack  from  a  bin 
he  groped  gingerly  about  in  the  large  sawdust 
filled  powder  box  for  the  dynamite  he  knew 
was  there.  Stick  after  stick  he  tucked  carefully 


198  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

into  the  flour,  thinking  that  by  doing  so  he 
might  add  to  the  safety  of  carrying  the  dan 
gerous  stuff  about  in  the  darkness,  although 
from  its  frozen  condition  he  felt  that  this  pre 
caution  was  unnecessary.  With  nearly  two 
dozen  of  the  sticks  safely  tucked  away  he  began 
his  perilous  journey  back  through  the  rooms. 
He  thought  the  darkness  about  him  was  al 
ready  beginning  to  pale  and  he  quickened  his 
movements.  On  gaining  the  door  to  the  outer 
sleeping  quarters,  he  breathed  easily  again  and, 
straightening  to  his  full  length,  proceeded  with 
wide  stealthy  strides  into  the  falling  snow. 

He  lost  no  time  now  as  morning  was  indeed 
breaking.  But  for  the  heavy  falling  snow  it 
would  already  be  light,  he  feared,  as  he  made 
hastily  for  the  mouth  of  the  tunnel.  Grasping 
the  huge  bundle  of  stolen  clothing,  and  with 
lighted  candle  affixed  to  his  miner's  hat,  he 
rushed  hurriedly  on,  not  stopping  until  the  very 
end  of  the  tunnel  was  reached.  With  tremb 
ling  hands  he  began  at  once  making  hole  after 
hole  along  both  sides  of  the  tunnel  and  along 
its  roof  above  his  head,  continuing  the  work 
until  he  had  covered  a  distance  of  nearly  sixty 
feet. 

Feeling  that  he  could  spare  no  more  time 
with  such  work,  he  set  about  placing  dynamite. 
He  had  assisted  Ham  with  what  little  powder 
work  had  been  done,  and  he  remembered  now 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  199 

how  easily  dynamite  could  freeze  beyond  the 
point  of  usefulness.  With  a  pang  of  sudden  dis 
appointment  he  now  anxiously  felt  the  frozen 
sticks,  and  knew  it  would  be  impossible  to  use 
them  until  they  were  thawed  out.  For  a  mo 
ment  he  stood  there  calling  desperately  upon 
the  resourcefulness  that  had  favored  him  so 
generously  throughout  the  night.  It  did  not 
fail  him  now.  Without  a  moment's  further 
hesitation  he  placed  the  bundle  of  clothing 
against  the  wall  of  the  tunnel,  and  touched  a 
lighted  candle  to  it.  Then,  as  soon  as  the 
flames  became  sufficiently  strong,  he  deliber 
ately  placed  his  bag  of  death  and  destruction 
over  them  realizing  full  well  as  he  did  so  that 
any  moment  he  might  be  blown  into  eternity. 
Nevertheless  he  kept  his  post,  and  felt  anx 
iously  of  the  fast-softening  sticks  within  the 
bag,  as  minute  after  minute  slipped  by.  In 
deadly  earnest  he  held  them  there,  grimly 
grinding  his  teeth  together  until  the  muscles  of 
his  jaws  fairly  bulged  beneath  the  skin! 

Cold  beads  of  perspiration  trickled  down 
from  his  forehead  before  he  yielded  and  con 
sented  to  place  the  softened  sticks  between  the 
small  clefts  he  had  made  in  the  tunnel.  Prim 
ing  and  fusing  was  but  the  work  of  a  moment; 
then,  after  cramming  the  remaining  sticks  into 
his  pockets,  he  touched  the  candle  to  the  master 
fuse — and  started  a  mad  rush  for  the  pale  day- 


200  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

light  without.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever 
used  dynamite  alone  and  on  his  own  responsi 
bility,  and  for  aught  he  knew  the  deadly  con 
cussion  of  the  blast  would  sound  ere  he  covered 
half  the  distance  to  the  blacksmith  shop — and 
safety. 

Early  in  his  mad  flight  his  candle  blew  out. 
His  heavy  boots  hindered  rather  than  helped 
him  as  he  tried  desperately  to  make  speed  and 
yet  keep  his  footing.  One  bad  fall  on  the  rocky 
floor  with  a  stick  of  the  powder  in  his  pockets 
striking  under  him  and  he  knew  he  would  never 
hear  the  blasts  behind.  Fifty — seventy-five — 
one  hundred  yards;  he  slackened  his  pace.  Per 
haps  he  hadn't  prepared  the  blasts  right  after 
all,  he  suddenly  thought.  Then,  as  though 
ashamed  of  the  near  panic  he  was  in,  he  even 
slowed  down  to  a  walk  before  finally  emerging 
into  the  entrance  way  of  the  tunnel.  And  well 
he  did!  Premonition  was  certainly  aiding 
resource  now,  for  no  sooner  was  he  in  the  short 
wind-break  that  formed  the  entrance  to  the 
tunnel,  than  he  heard  loud  curses  emanating 
from  the  bunk  houses.  Dropping  quickly  to 
his  hands  and  knees,  he  sneaked  rapidly  for 
ward  and  peered  over  the  embankment.  One 
look,  and  he  flattened  suddenly  on  the  ground. 
There  on  the  porch  and  in  the  doorway  of  the 
bunk  house  was  a  sight  strange  to  behold. 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  201 

Sharpe  standing  in  his  underwear,  with 
naked  feet  buried  in  fully  six  inches  of  snow, 
tails  of  his  flannel  shirt  whipping  grotesquely 
in  the  wind,  was  wildly  thrashing  the  air  with 
a  gun,  calling  loudly  the  while  for  all  manner 
of  accursed  thieves  to  come  out  and  fight.  The 
fuzzy  hair  on  the  back  of  his  head  stood  up  in 
bold  relief  over  his  bald  pate,  and  his  huge 
nose  seemed  actually  to  dilate  with  anger. 

Back  of  him  stood  Browning,  attired  even 
as  was  Sharpe  himself,  except  that  the  flapping 
shirt  tails  were  missing.  The  flabby,  pointed 
paunch  of  his  stomach  that  fitted  so  well  in  street 
attire,  seemed  woefully  misplaced  and  ridicu 
lous  now  as  it  strained  at  the  buttons  of  his 
union  suit.  Other  men  were  peering  from  win 
dows  on  both  sides  of  the  door,  and  some  even 
pranced  about  within  the  doorway  itself  as 
though  anxious  to  break  past  Browning  and 
stand  in  the  cold  snow  with  Sharpe. 

The  contrast  between  his  recent  rendez 
vous  with  death,  and  the  queer  antics  of  the 
men  before  him,  made  Pete  choke  with 
laughter.  His  only  desire  in  life  at  the  mo 
ment  it  seemed,  was  to  rise  to  his  feet  and 
whoop  from  sheer  delight.  However,  thoughts 
of  the  ominous  moments  to  come  and  the  ex 
pected  thunder  of  the  blast  behind,  impelled 
him  to  action  of  a  far  different  kind. 

Grasping  a  gun  from  either  hip  he  sprang 


202  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

suddenly  up  and  sent  a  volley  of  bullets  whist 
ling  above  the  confused  heads  in  the  doorway 
and  windows  of  the  bunk  house.  Then,  feeling 
assured  of  the  effect  of  his  volley,  he  looked  a 
moment  upon  the  wild  scene  it  caused,  and 
rushed  quickly  to  the  blacksmith  shop  by  the 
tunnel  side,  slung  his  pack  to  his  shoulders,  and 
rushed  off  into  the  snow-storm,  and  down  the 
trail  toward  Salmon  Tooth  Pass.  Scarcely  had 
he  turned  his  back  to  the  mine,  however,  when 
came  a  deafening  roar  coupled  with  a  blast  of 
wind  which  literally  swept  him  from  his  feet. 
The  very  earth,  it  seemed,  shook  beneath  him. 

Pete  smiled  grimly  as  the  echoes  reverber 
ated  about  him.  Then  gathering  himself  to 
his  feet  he  plunged  boldly  and  unafraid  down 
the  snow-covered,  treacherous  trail  of  the 
mountain  side. 

Hours  afterward,  the  half  naked  prisoners 
in  the  bunk  house  heard  still  another  deafening 
roar  far  down  in  the  gully  below — and  they 
knew  that  Jenkins  would  no  longer  be  telling 
a  lie  when  he  posted  signs  reading: 

"Salmon  Tooth  Pass  closed  —  landslides 
blocking  the  Trail." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

AY  after  day  Pete  wallowed  through  snow 
and  braved  the  cold  blasts  that  swept 
upon  him  like  myriad  spears  of  ice  over  the 
mountain  tops.  Each  day  found  him  seeking  a 
new  vantage  spot  nearer  and  nearer  the  high 
bluffs  that  overhung  the  Salmon  River  Valley, 
and  every  night  as  he  lit  his  campfire,  he  stood 
long  before  it  making  signals  as  best  he  could 
by  aid  of  blankets,  hoping  against  hope  that 
Tam,  wherever  she  was,  might  see  them. 

Time  and  again  he  was  forced  back  into  the 
gulch  below  in  search  of  food,  often  finding  it 
necessary  to  spend  many  hours  of  daylight 
before  he  could  shoot  a  single  fish,  or  start  up 
a  rabbit  or  fool-hen  from  the  snow-covered 
trees  of  the  bottom  land.  Twice  he  was  com 
pelled  to  visit  the  shack  of  the  old  Indian,  each 
time  lying  carefully  under  cover  to  make  cer 
tain  that  no  lurking  gangster  awaited  within 
the  cabin.  On  both  occasions  he  was  forced  by 
necessity  to  take  large  supplies  of  meal,  coffee, 
sugar  and  salt;  but  he  was  careful  to  leave 
money  behind,  knowing  full  well  that  the  sly 
old  woman  would  have  no  difficulty  in  replen 
ishing  her  supplies  when  the  runner  again  made 
his  way  up  the  gulch  from  Jenkins'  commissary 


204  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

at  the  pass.  His  second  trip  to  the  shack,  how 
ever,  was  his  last  one.  All  along  the  trail  he 
found  undeniable  evidence  that  many  men  had 
gone  up  the  canyon  toward  the  Dead  Horse 
Mine.  His  shaggy  beard  growing  full  into  a 
shock  of  hair  that  fell  in  masses  from  his  head, 
shook  with  laughter  as  he  pictured  the  last 
sight  he  had  had  of  the  four  conspirators,  and 
their  men.  How  long  they  remained  before 
help  came  he  could  not  know;  yet  hardly  a  day 
passed  but  he  listened  long  for  signs  of 
work  on  the  huge  mass  of  rock  he  had  blasted 
across  the  narrows  of  the  gulch.  So  far,  they 
had  not  begun  work  upon  it,  but  with  the 
dispatching  of  workmen  to  the  Dead  Horse, 
(and  he  could  think  of  no  other  meaning  in  the 
tracks  on  the  trail  by  Hatty's  shack),  he  feared 
that  the  blasted  rock,  too,  would  soon  be  cleared 
away. 

On  the  morning  of  the  tenth  day  Pete 
arose  stiff  and  cramped  from  cold,  and  busied 
himself  over  a  meager  breakfast  of  boiled  corn 
and  coffee. 

He  had  never  tired  of  the  glories  of  early 
morning,  especially  when  the  sun  rose  clear  and 
bright,  sending  its  magic  touch,  like  the  brush 
of  a  master  painter,  over  the  vast,  rolling  moun 
tains  about  him.  The  very  greatness  of  the 
picture  it  unfolded  gave  to  him  a  sense  of  se- 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  205 

curity  and  safety,  in  spite  of  his  intense  loneli 
ness. 

Now,  as  he  sat  before  his  breakfast  fire 
after  ten  days  of  constant  struggle  with  the 
elements,  the  grandeur  of  the  panorama  seemed 
to  suggest  a  new  and  different  meaning.  For 
the  first  time,  it  seemed,  the  overwhelming  odds 
against  which  he  waged  his  lone  struggle  stood 
out  in  the  very  vastness  of  the  wilderness  about 
him.  For  the  first  time,  too,  since  he  plunged 
into  the  snow-covered  mountains,  he  began  to 
question  his  plan  of  action,  and  to  wish  he  had 
gone  to  Moapa  to  fight  his  enemies  where  he 
knew  they  were.  Only  the  deep-rooted  convic 
tion  that  Hawkins  was  still  alive  and  must  be 
found,  and  that  Tamarack  Sue  was  with  him, 
somewhere  in  the  very  hills  about  him,  pre 
vented  his  immediate  departure  for  the  pass. 
As  he  contemplated  such  a  journey,  he  pictured 
his  meeting  with  Jenkins  and  Buller  and  per 
haps  with  Demons  or  even  Browning  himself, 
and  he  unconsciously  expanded  his  muscle- 
ribbed  chest  and  felt  the  vigor  of  new  strength 
course  through  his  veins.  What  a  pleasure  it 
would  be  to  meet  them,  one  or  all!  He  craved 
an  opportunity  to  test  his  new-born  strength; 
to  meet  the  curs  of  this  murderous  gang  and 
crush  them  beneath  his  heel! 

Nor  was  the  temptation  to  quit  his  vigil  on 
the  hills  and  carry  the  battle  to  his  enemies 


206  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

wholly  without  support  of  reason.  For  ten 
nights  he  had  built  fires  and  signaled;  he  had 
built  them  on  vantage  points  from  which  his 
eye  could  sweep  the  mountains  for  miles,  and 
the  valley  below  even  to  Moapa  itself,  yet  he 
had  received  not  even  a  hint  of  answer.  He 
thought  long  and  hard,  first  favoring  his  im 
pulse  to  be  among  men,  then  yielding  finally  to 
the  old  arguments  of  reason  that  had  sent  him 
on  his  present  mission  ten  days  before. 

As  he  sat  and  pondered  thus  the  sun  burst 
forth  with  a  flood  of  light  that  made  even  the 
distant  peaks  seem  close  and  friendly.  There 
had  been  no  snow  for  two  days,  and  Pete  could 
see  his  trail  of  the  day  before  running  for  hun 
dreds  of  yards  down  the  mountain  side.  It 
was  the  first  time  he  had  left  a  trail  and  the  full 
significance  of  the  thought  came  over  him  with 
a  sudden  rush,  as  he  recalled  that  always  before 
snow  had  fallen,  at  least  sometime  during  each 
twenty-four  hours.  Even  the  tracks  of  many 
men  by  the  Indian's  cabin  were  half  filled  with 
it,  and  it  was  still  snowing  when  he  had  left 
there,  he  recalled.  Then  came  a  premonition, 
a  feeling,  odd  enough,  that  he  might  not  have 
to  go  to  the  valley  below,  after  all,  to  meet  his 
enemies!  With  a  burst  of  sudden  energy,  he 
rolled  his  pack  securely,  threw  it  over  his  shoul 
ders,  and  proceeded  eagerly  to  the  task  of 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  207 

making  a  trail  more  to  his  liking  than  the  one 
he  had  left  the  night  before. 

With  the  deftness  and  assurance  of  a  na 
tive  mountaineer  coupled  with  the  cunningness 
of  a  hunted  man,  he  made  his  way,  circling  this 
way  and  that,  directly  over  high  points  that 
stood  fearlessly  above  the  rest,  and  plunging 
through  little  clumps  of  stunted  mountain  cedar, 
always  working  with  a  definite  object  in  view, 
until  he  reached  a  location  that  seemed  to  suit 
his  fancy. 

As  the  afternoon  approached  he  set  about 
preparing  camp  for  the  night.  For  the  first 
time  he  selected  a  spot  well  hidden  from  view, 
yet  one  from  which  his  eye  could  sweep  sev 
eral  of  the  high  spots  of  his  recent  trail. 

As  the  evening  shadows  gathered,  he  felt 
more  and  more  convinced  that  someone  was 
on  his  trail.  Not  that  he  had  positive  evidence ; 
but  because  it  was  such  an  obvious  way  for 
Browning  to  w7reak  vengeance  upon  him.  He 
wondered  what  type  of  man  would  be  selected 
for  such  a  mission.  Would  it  be  one  who  would 
steal  upon  him  in  the  night  and  end  matters 
quickly  and  silently,  while  he  slept? 

As  darkness  slowly  settled  over  the  moun 
tains,  Pete  became  more  and  more  convinced  of 
the  nearness  of  someone  on  his  trail,  and  with 
the  thrill  of  near-combat  in  his  veins,  he  threw 
his  provident  scrimping  of  rations  to  the  winds, 


208  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

and  set  about  preparing  a  meal  fit  for  the  role 
he  hoped  soon  to  fill.  With  almost  reckless 
abandon  he  cut  deep  into  his  precious  supply 
of  fat  bacon,  leaving  scarcely  enough  for  a 
morning  meal.  Into  melted  snow  water  he 
poured  handful  after  handful  of  finely  ground 
corn,  stirring  it  as  it  boiled  with  the  whittled 
end  of  a  cedar  spoon.  Then  came  the  most 
reckless  act  of  all,  the  opening  of  a  can  of  pre 
served  fruit.  How  carefully  had  he  cherished 
this  delicacy  against  the  day  when  he  could 
serve  it,  together  with  a  meal  of  his  own  cook 
ing,  to  Hawkins  and  Susie ! 

As  he  finished  the  meal,  there  beside  the 
dying  embers  of  the  camp-fire,  he  looked  long 
and  far  into  the  dull  red  of  the  setting  sun. 
What  a  short  cry  it  was  after  all,  he  thought, 
from  man  as  God  intended  him,  to  man  as  he 
himself  had  been  only  a  few  short  months  be 
fore  !  Now,  even  as  he  toyed  with  his  guns, 
cold,  deadly  reminders  of  imminent  battle,  his 
soul  seemed  satisfied  and  for  a  moment  in  ac 
cord  with  nature  unspoiled  by  man !  Yet  only 
a  day  before,  it  seemed,  he  had  been  tossing 
about  on  an  unnatural  sea  of  conflicting  emo 
tions,  coming  he  knew  now  from  the  ever-in 
creasing  struggle  of  man  living  on  man  rather 
than  nature.  True,  all  of  the  intrigues  and  vil 
lainies  of  depraved  manhood  were  within  a 
stone's  throw  of  his  very  camp-fire,  and  as  he 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  209 

slowly  limbered  the  hammers  of  his  guns  he 
knew  full  well  that  with  all  the  purity  of  nature 
about  him  his  very  life,  for  the  present  at  least, 
was  devoted  to  a  bitter  struggle  against  his 
fellow-men.  Nevertheless,  it  was  this  very 
thought  that  brought  home  to  him  the  full  sig 
nificance  of  the  slumbering  peacefulness  of  the 
almighty  greatness  about  him.  Even  as  the 
storm-wrecked  mariner  looks  hopefully  out 
from  angry  treacherous  seas  for  the  glassy  sun 
lit  blue  of  placid  waters,  so  Pete  looked  from 
the  man-made  war  that  engulfed  him,  out  onto 
the  world  of  promise;  the  untenanted  hills  and 
valleys  of  the  wilderness. 

Yet  it  was  only  a  promise,  a  definite  and 
certain  bargain,  it  seemed  to  Pete,  whose  mind 
from  being  too  much  alone  began  to  picture  his 
enemies,  Browning,  Sharpe  and  the  entire 
crowd  that  went  with  them,  as  enemies  alike  of 
the  goddess  nature;  sore  spots  festering  in  the 
side  of  peace  and  harmony  they  seemed.  And 
the  thought  only  whetted  his  appetite  the  more 
for  the  day  of  reckoning!  When  it  came,  he 
told  himself,  the  reward  would  be  his!  Often 
he  had  thought  of  the  reward,  and  wondered 
after  all  what  it  would  mean  to  him.  There 
was  the  wealth  of  the  Dead  Horse  Mine ;  Haw 
kins  would  share  that  with  him,  he  knew. 
Gold! — No,  the  thought  was  repulsive.  At 
one  time  he  had  had  the  use  of  all  of  the  stuff 


210  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

he  wanted,  and  the  very  use  of  it  had  sent  him 
racing  madly  along  what  he  now  pictured  as  a 
hopeless,  cheerless  road — a  trail  of  sickly  yel 
low  that  seemed  to  end  in  a  swamp  of  distorted 
notions,  blasted  hopes,  lost  souls  and  despon 
dency.  No,  it  was  not  gold !  The  glory  of  vic 
tory  then,  the  elation  that  would  come  through 
establishing  the  supremacy  of  right  over 
wrong!  Yes,  surely,  there  would  be  great  sat 
isfaction  in  winning  the  fight.  Yet  somehow 
the  thought  that  victory  over  the  skulking  ene 
mies  of  the  hills,  alone  constituted  his  reward 
failed  to  satisfy  him.  Something  was  lacking 
still,  something  his  heart  demanded,  and  he 
knew  what  it  was — even  as  all  men  know !  The 
companionship  of  a  woman — the  soul-satisfy 
ing  blending  of  kindred  spirits  and  strong  vig 
orous  bodies. 

Woman !  Ah !  With  a  pang  of  remorse  he 
reviewed  his  knowledge  of  them,  of  women 
who  adorned  the  yellow  trail!  As  he  thought 
of  them  he  closed  his  eyes  and  looked  upon  the 
trail  as  it  seemed  to  him  now,  a  trail  jammed 
with  humanity.  On  its  gilded  way  he  pictured 
men  in  the  lead,  men  doing  as  they  pleased  to 
the  extent  of  their  ability;  some  pausing  occa 
sionally  to  take  on  a  new  stock  of  "isms,"  new 
notions  and  explanations  in  justification  of  their 
heedless  journey.  On  this  trail  he  seemed  to 
see  the  women  he  had  known ;  some  in  the  van- 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  211 

guard  with  the  men,  but  mostly  a  group  just 
beginning  the  perilous  journey.  He  saw  them 
hesitate,  noted  the  invisible  restraint,  the  silent 
protesting  of  their  souls !  Then,  as  they  strug 
gled  with  themselves  there  came  counter-cur 
rents  from  the  vanguard  of  men  and  women 
ahead — messengers,  it  seemed,  bringing  strange 
and  fascinating  doctrines.  There  was  one  car 
rying  a  banner  called  The  New  Psyche;  still 
others  parading  the  lure  of  "Free  Love,"  "trial 
marriage"  and  other  fascinating  doctrines,  until 
finally  he  saw  first  one,  and  then  another  of  the 
women  he  knew  break  from  the  hesitating 
crowd  and  rush  past  the  banner  bearers  and 
on  to  the  mob  in  front! 

A  woman,  yes,  but  not  one  of  these !  He 
shuddered  as  he  opened  his  eyes  and  looked 
again  toward  the  setting  sun.  Unworthy  as  he 
was,  he  knew  now  his  soul  had  never  surren 
dered;  and  he  breathed  silent  thanks  for  the 
strange,  unaccountable  something  that  had  sent 
him  rushing  madly  away  from  himself,  on  the 
journey  that  ended  in  the  mountains,  and  he 
prayed  that  when  his  reward  came,  if  ever  he 
earned  one,  it  would  be  a  woman  with  a  soul 
that  could  bare  itself  to  the  purity  of  the  moun 
tains  about  him,  and  that  he  would  be  worthy 
to  accept  such  a  reward! 

As  the  fire  died  out,  he  sought  a  sheltered 
spot  near  tumbled  boulders,  burrowed  a  hole 


212  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

into  the  snow,  wrapped  himself  warmly  in 
blanket  and  canvas,  and  went  to  sleep  with  the 
sun. 

For  the  first  time  since  his  flight  to  the  hills 
he  remained  quietly  hidden  in  his  hole  in  the 
snow  for  fully  a  half  hour  after  the  sun  was  up. 
Instead  of  plunging  boldly  out,  as  was  his  cus 
tom,  he  now  carefully  furrowed  a  long  tele 
scope-like  hole  through  snow  he  had  banked 
against  the  hole  to  cover  his  retreat.  For  fully 
a  half  hour  he  lay  there  silently  watching  the 
back  trail.  His  strategy  served  him  well  for 
there,  scarcely  one  hundred  yards  down  the 
mountain  side,  came  two  lithe  figures  with  light 
packs  slung  high  on  their  backs  and  rifles,  glit 
tering  in  the  sunshine,  in  their  hands.  Pete, 
however,  greeted  the  sight  with  little  or  no 
emotion  for  he  had  been  certain  for  hours  past 
that  someone  would  come  and  had  long  since 
prepared  himself  for  the  expected  encounter. 

Nevertheless,  he  studied  them  carefully  as 
they  approached,  and  soon  made  out  the  leader 
to  be  none  other  than  Slim  Eliot,  the  half-breed. 
The  man  behind  was  a  stranger,  but  Pete 
could  tell  from  his  manner  that  he  was  a  man 
used  to  winter  travel,  and  from  the  great  simi 
larity  of  features  of  the  two  he  deducted  that 
the  unknown  was  also  a  half-breed  and  perhaps 
even  related  to  Eliot. 

Pete,  thanks  to  the  care  with  which  he  had 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  213 

made  his  trail  the  day  before,  had  ample  op 
portunity  to  observe  his  would-be  captors,  as 
they  circled  about  the  high  point,  keeping  their 
eyes  glued  on  the  trail  that  led  to  the  miniature 
plateau  where  Pete  had  made  his  camp. 

Gradually  they  made  their  way  until  only 
one  lap  separated  them  from  the  tell-tale  re 
mains  of  the  camp-fire.  In  spite  of  his  well- 
laid  plan  of  action  Pete  felt  more  than  ordinary 
concern  over  the  cramped  stiffness  of  his  body 
caused  by  his  long  sleep  in  the  snow  bank.  With 
desperate  energy  he  kicked  his  feet  and 
thrashed  his  limbs  about  in  their  narrow  quar 
ters.  His  fingers  were  stiff  and  cold,  but  he 
had  plenty  of  time  to  adjust  them  to  the  trigger 
guards  of  his  guns,  one  of  which  he  held  in 
each  hand. 

Shivering  from  the  tenseness  of  the  mo 
ment  he  pulled  up  his  knees  beneath  him  and 
made  ready  to  spring.  He  could  plainly  hear 
the  loud  thumping  of  his  heart  as  he  watched 
eagerly  for  the  first  appearance  of  the  fur  cap 
ped  heads  above  the  last  ridge.  Suddenly  they 
appeared,  and  so  close  to  him  that  he  could 
actually  see  the  snapping  black  of  their  eyes. 
With  a  tremendous  burst  of  energy  he  flung  the 
snow  from  before  him  and  fairly  catapulted 
himself  to  the  snow  before  the  half-breeds. 
With  a  startled  cry  of  astonishment,  Eliot  and 


214  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

his  mate  shrunk  back  confused  and  shocked 
into  abject  helplessness. 

"Rifles  down,  hands  up,  quick!"  Pete  thun 
dered,  as  he  towered  above  them. 

Apparently  expecting  instant  death,  both 
men  eagerly  complied  with  the  command,  and 
began  to  plead  for  mercy. 

"Pardon,  M'sieu  Alden,  pardon!"  they 
cried  in  broken  French  and  English. 

"We  ees  queet  so — pardon!" 

"Keep  your  arms  high  and  turn  your  backs, 
I  might  need  your  other  guns,"  Pete  ordered, 
advancing  on  the  men  as  he  did  so.  Then,  ex 
tracting  revolvers  and  two  murderous  knives 
from  their  belts,  he  shouted  suddenly: 

"Now  get  up  on  the  hill  and  we'll  see  about 
this  pardow  stuff.  Quick,  jump !"  He  empha 
sized  his  latest  command  by  pumping  two  shots 
into  the  snow  beneath  the  feet  of  his  victims. 
The  effect  was  instantaneous;  with  incredible 
quickness  the  two  breeds  sprang  over  the  three 
or  four  feet  of  the  raise,  and  gained  the  minia 
ture  hill  above.  Pete,  thoroughly  satisfied  with 
the  apparent  abject  submission  of  the  men,  hesi 
tated  a  moment  before  following,  to  throw  the 
captured  guns  and  knives  into  the  soft  snow  at 
his  feet.  The  rifles  had  already  disappeared  in 
it,  and  for  a  second  only  Pete  bent  over  to  add 
the  captured  guns  and  knives  to  the  pile.  But 
that  second  was  enough.  Quick  as  a  flash,  like 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  215 

two  frenzied  catamounts,  Eliot  and  his  com 
panion  sprang  upon  him!  The  sudden  impact 
of  their  bodies  sent  Pete  face  first  floundering 
in  the  snow,  where,  with  a  prodigious  effort, 
he  wallowed  about,  swinging  his  arms  flail-like 
until  at  length  he  grasped  a  boot  strap  in  one 
hand,  and  an  arm  in  the  other.  Whether  they 
belonged  to  the  same  man  or  not  he  could  not 
tell.  Bringing  to  bear  all  of  the  pent-up 
strength  of  muscles  made  hard  as  steel  through 
weary  weeks  of  strenuous  labor  at  the  mine,  he 
made  one  mighty  flop,  keeping  his  vice-like  grip 
on  the  boot  strap  and  arm  as  he  did  so,  and 
hurled  himself  over  the  edge  of  the  ridge. 
Then  followed  a  strange  conglomeration  of 
arms,  legs  and  bodies  as  the  three  rolled  and 
slid  down  the  mountain  side.  Early  in  the  wild 
plunge,  Pete  knew  he  was  securely  entangled 
with  both  of  his  assailants,  and  with  deadly  ef 
fect  he  used  every  opportunity  to  shift  his  grip 
from  one  place  to  another,  punching  viciously 
into  the  rolling  bodies  as  he  did  so.  For  fully 
half  a  minute  the  three  continued  their  desper 
ate  struggle  down  the  mountain  side,  piling  up 
finally  on  rocks  a  full  hundred  yards  below  with 
a  force  that  only  snow  prevented  from  inflicting 
certain  death.  Down,  down  into  the  drifted 
snow  they  sank,  resting  finally  in  a  smothering 
heap  of  flour-like  whiteness.  Somewhere  along 
the  descent,  Pete  had  lost  one  of  his  men;  at 


216  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

least  he  had  hold  of  but  one  when  he  finally 
came  to  the  dizzy  realization  that  he  had  no 
broken  bones — and  was  still  in  Montana,  with 
an  hired  assassin,  resting  apparently  stunned,  in 
his  arms. 

Badly  shaken  as  he  was,  he  commenced  at 
once  a  frantic  scramble  for  the  air  without. 
With  his  first  movement  came  a  stinging  blow 
on  the  chin  from  the  man  in  his  arms.  With  a 
grunt  of  rage,  Pete  retaliated,  not  with  one 
arm,  but  with  both  fists  working  at  short  range 
like  trip  hammers  on  the  body  and  face  of  the 
'breed.  For  fully  half  a  minute  the  two  men 
fought,  first  one  and  then  the  other  landing 
short-arm,  muffled  blows.  Gradually  they 
worked  themselves  near  the  edge  of  the  drift, 
and  as  the  surface  came  near,  the  fight  in 
creased  in  intensity.  Even  in  the  midst  of  the 
battle  Pete  gloried  in  the  response  of  his  mus 
cles  and  lungs,  as  he  called  upon  them  for  more 
and  more.  He  was  first  to  emerge,  and  still 
grasping  his  adversary  by  the  neck,  he  jerked 
the  face  to  the  light  of  day  and  smashed  into 
it  with  a  powerful  blow  of  his  right  fist.  The 
man  sank  limply  into  the  snow  and  Pete  knew 
that  Slim  Eliot  would  be  floating  on  fluffy 
clouds  for  a  goodly  while. 

With  the  lust  of  battle  still  gripping  him 
tensely  he  took  a  long  breath  and  looked  about 
for  Eliot's  companion.  He  expected  to  find 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  217 

him  emerging  from  the  snowdrift,  but  was 
wholly  unprepared  for  the  shock  he  received 
when,  turning  in  his  tracks,  he  found  himself 
looking  into  the  muzzle  of  a  rifle. 

"Now  it  ees  for  you — my  frien' — Pierre 
weel  now  keel  you — so !" 

Pete,  as  though  stupefied  with  horror  at  the 
sudden  turn  of  events,  looked  helplessly  into 
the  muzzle  of  the  rifle.  By  some  miracle,  the 
breed  had  become  disentangled  early  in  the  de 
scent  down  the  hill,  and  had  had  sufficient  time 
to  recover  his  weapon. 

As  he  listened  to  the  words,  Pete  realized 
he  would  be  dead  already,  save  for  the  inher 
ent  craving  of  the  Indian  blood  for  torture. 
Pete  looked  sullenly  at  the  rifle,  as  though  to 
dare  it  to  finish  its  work.  As  he  looked  his 
eyes  opened  wide.  Pierre  saw  the  expression. 

"You  mean  we  will  both  die — the  muzzle 
of  your  rifle  is  packed  with  snow — it  will  ex 
plode  !"  Pete  shouted. 

The  truth  of  the  words  were  all  too  ob 
vious  to  the  half-breed  who  knew  full  well  the 
danger  of  firing  a  shell  into  a  plugged-up  bar 
rel.  Yet  he  tried  desperately  to  maintain  his 
supremacy. 

"Pierre  is  betteir  wis  ze  knife;  he  weel 
keel  you,  my  frien'  1"  he  snarled,  as  he  drop 
ped  the  rifle  to  the  ground  and  whipped  out  one 


218  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

of  the  long  dagger-like  knives  Pete  had  earlier 
removed  from  his  belt. 

With  the  slight  turn  of  fortune  in  his  favor, 
Pete  sprang  into  action.  Scraping  a  great  dou 
ble  handful  of  snow  he  threw  it  full  at  the  face 
of  the  advancing  breed,  plunging  off  sideways 
as  he  did  so  directly  at  the  body  of  the  pros 
trate  Eliot.  With  sheer  strength  of  back  and 
arms,  he  jerked  the  limp  form  to  its  feet  and 
held  it  there  as  a  buffer  between  himself  and 
Pierre.  A  second  more,  and  the  latter  would 
have  released  the  long  knife,  which  he  held 
poised  in  the  air  for  a  deadly  throw. 

For  fully  ten  minutes  Pierre  danced  like  a 
mad  man  in  a  semi-circle,  as  near  the  soft  drift 
as  he  could  get,  sparring  for  a  vantage  spot 
from  which  to  release  his  knife.  Gradually 
Pete  worked  his  way  closer  and  closer,  strain 
ing  every  muscle,  as  he  jerked  his  human  shield 
about  to  meet  the  menacing  knife. 

Seeing  the  uselessness  of  the  effort,  Pierre 
at  length  put  the  knife  between  his  teeth,  and 
bent  over  the  rifle,  as  though  to  remove  from 
the  barrel  the  tightly  frozen  wad  of  snow.  One 
slit  of  air,  however  small,  through  that  wad, 
and  Pete  knew  the  fight  would  be  over,  yet  he 
knew  of  no  way  the  trick  could  be  done. 

With  a  crafty,  sinister  smile  Pierre  quickly 
snatched  out  the  tail  of  his  heavy  woolen  shirt 
and  cut  a  piece  nearly  a  foot  square  from  it. 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  219 

A  second  more  and  it  was  lighted,  the  hot  flame 
going  directly  into  the  snow  packed  barrel  of 
the  rifle. 

With  a  frenzied  shout  of  desperation,  Pete 
summoned  all  of  his  strength,  clutched  firmly 
at  the  body  of  Eliot  who  already  was  slowly 
regaining  consciousness  in  his  arms,  whipped 
him  high  above  his  head,  and  before  Pierre 
could  move,  sent  Eliot  crashing  into  him!  So 
terrific  was  the  impact  of  the  blow  that  both  of 
the  breeds  disappeared  as  though  by  magic  be 
neath  the  crust  of  snow  that  covered  the  drift, 
Pete  staggering  in  after  them.  But  he  had  no 
opportunity  there  to  come  to  grips  with  the  wily 
Pierre,  who,  thinking  the  rifle  must  surely  be 
in  the  hands  of  his  enemy,  frantically  burrowed 
his  way  to  the  far  side  of  the  drift,  and  with  a 
frightened  yell  sprang  out  and  over  the  mass  of 
boulders,  running,  sliding  and  rolling  in  turns, 
down  the  slope  of  the  mountain.  Keeping  his 
eye  on  Eliot,  Pete  finally  shook  the  snow  of  his 
second  plunge  from  him,  picked  up  the  now 
useful  rifle  and  sent  half  a  dozen  shots  in  the 
general  direction  of  the  fast-retreating  Pierre, 
hoping  to  increase  the  panic  with  which  the 
'breed  was  apparently  leaving  the  mountains. 

Completely  exhausted  as  he  was  from  the 
strenuous  exercise  of  the  morning,  he  leisurely 
tied  the  wrists  and  ankles  of  Eliot,  and  sat 
basking  in  the  sun  until  sufficient  strength  re- 


220  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

turned  to  enable  him  to  negotiate  the   steep 
hill  down  which  they  had  rolled. 

At  length,  however,  he  succeeded  in  moving 
all  of  the  equipment  from  the  camp  above, 
down  to  where  his  prisoner  lay,  now  fully  con 
scious,  but  sullenly  quiet. 

By  adding  the  food  taken  from  the  two 
packs  of  the  breeds,  Pete  was  finally  able  to 
prepare  a  breakfast  that  did  ample  justice  to 
the  state  of  his  appetite,  and  apparently  to  that 
also  of  his  prisoner. 

Breakfast  finished  the  packs  were  again 
rolled,  and  with  a  veritable  arsenal  about  his 
belt,  Pete  began  on  Eliot.  Starting  with  the  as 
sumption  that  Hawkins  must  still  be  alive,  and 
that  Eliot  knew  where  he  was,  he  conducted  a 
third  degree  examination  that  lasted  for  hours. 

At  first  Eliot  stoutly  refused  to  talk  and 
neither  threats  or  promises  could  induce  him 
to  tell  what  he  knew.  But  at  length  Pete  dis 
covered  the  tack  that  proved  successful.  By 
the  merest  chance  he  referred  to  Pierre  as 
Eliot's  brother,  and  to  the  old  Indian  woman 
in  the  gulch  as  his  mother.  Following  this 
line,  Pete  repeated  a  mythical  story  in  which 
the  old  squaw  told  him  that  her  son  Eliot  had 
not  searched  for  the  fifty  thousand  dollars  at 
all,  but  had  intended  double-crossing  Buller 
and  Alguin.  Following  this,  and  perhaps  be- 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  221 

cause  he  hoped  for  clemency  at  the  hands  of 
Pete,  Eliot  confessed  the  entire  intrigue  con 
cerning  the  supposed  cache  of  money,  told  a 
broken  story  of  how  he  had  started  for  Jumbo 
Point,  but  had  been  persuaded  by  his  mother 
to  give  up  the  trip  until  Spring,  when  it  would 
be  safer.  Then  he  told  how  he  had  reported 
the  story  Pete  had  told  to  be  a  lie,  and  how, 
finally,  he  found  it  actually  to  be  a  lie  when 
Pierre,  his  brother,  came  back  and  said  that 
Hawkins  had  cached  nothing  in  the  Jumbo 
Point  region,  as  Pierre  himself  was  trapping 
there,  and  would  certainly  have  found  Haw- 
kins'  trail.  Eliot  then  told  how  he  believed 
Hawkins  had  hid  the  money  somewhere;  and 
how,  when  Buller  went  to  kill  him,  taking  Eliot 
with  his  sled  along  to  haul  the  body,  he  himself 
had  induced  Bull  to  let  him  commit  the  deed. 
Buller,  he  said,  had  at  first  objected,  but  when 
Tamarack  Sue  said  she  could  not  love  a  man 
who  killed,  Eliot  was  given  the  job,  Buller 
hastening  back  to  the  prison  house  to  meet  the 
Sheriff,  whom  he  expected  would  be  coming 
for  Pete. 

Eliot  proposed  a  scheme  to  Tamarack  Sue 
for  saving  Hawkins'  life,  he  went  on,  as  soon 
as  Buller  left.  She  had  agreed  to  the  scheme, 
and  together  they  took  the  wounded  man  to  a 
lonely  cabin  far  out  in  the  mountains. 


222  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

Since  then  Hawkins  had  twice  given  him 
false  information  about  the  supposed  fifty 
thousand  dollars,  he  complained;  and  he  was 
just  returning  from  his  second  trip,  when  he 
met  Houston,  Browning's  lawyer. 

Slim  Eliot  wanted  to  stop  at  this  point  in 
the  story,  but  Pete  urged  and  led  him  on,  ex 
plaining  that  he  already  knew  enough  to  make 
trouble — but  that  if  he  knew  it  all  he  might 
let  Slim  go. 

With  great  reluctance,  Eliot  repeated  how 
Houston  directed  him  to  bring  back  the  dead 
body  of  Brud  Hawkins;  and  of  what  he  would 
do  if  Eliot  failed  to  obey. 

It  seemed  from  Eliot's  rather  sketchy 
story,  that  long  before  the  advent  of  the  Sal 
mon  River  Gold  Co.,  someone,  probably  Eliot's 
mother,  had  committed  a  desperate  crime  on 
the  Indian  reservation,  following  which  she 
had  changed  her  name  and  disappeared,  other 
Indians  on  the  reservation  assisting  by  swear 
ing  she  was  dead.  In  looking  up  titles  to  placer 
claims,  Houston,  Eliot  explained,  had  in  some 
strange  manner  traced  his  mother  from  her 
claim  in  the  gulch  back  to  the  old  crime.  It 
was  the  fear  of  having  her  brought  to  trial  for 
this  crime,  that  made  Eliot  willing  to  obey 
Houston. 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  223 

"And  did  you  bring  back  Hawkins1  body?" 
Pete  asked,  his  voice  choking  with  emotion. 

"No,"  Eliot  answered  reluctantly,  "Mees- 
ter  Houston,  he  ees  want  you  queek — then 
come  M'sieu  Hawkins." 


CHAPTER  XV 

C  PURRED  on  by  the  sudden  favorable  turn 
^  of  the  wheel  of  fortune  which  now  held 
out  the  promise  of  an  early  meeting  with  Haw 
kins  and  Tarn,  Pete  bent  every  effort  toward 
getting  well  under  way  before  the  compara 
tively  easy  travel  under  clear  skies  gave  way 
to  perilous  journeying  through  storm-ridden 
mountains. 

Following  the  recital  of  his  sordid  story, 
Eliot  seemed  submissive  and  willing  enough  to 
become  a  party  to  a  temporary  truce  with  his 
late  enemy,  but  Pete  took  no  unnecessary 
chances.  Always  during  the  day  Eliot  led  the 
way,  Pete  carrying  the  packs  of  both  of  them 
in  consideration  of  the  greater  hardships  of 
breaking  the  trail  which  fell  upon  the  half- 
breed.  Each  night  Pete  selected  the  camp  site 
with  great  care,  always  locating  in  the  vicinity 
of  rocky,  broken  country,  where  a  cave  beneath 
or  between  boulders  could  be  used  for  sleeping 
quarters.  Every  night  Eliot  went  in  first,  Pete 
assuming  the  role  of  a  sleeping  guard  at  the 
entrance.  He  had  thrown  away  all  but  his  own 
two  guns  and  at  night  he  took  pains  to  keep 
these  on  the  side  nearest  the  entrance. 

For  three  days  they  tramped  silently  and 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  225 

hard,  the  breed  setting  a  killing  pace  that  would 
have  worn  out  any  but  an  experienced  and 
hardened  mountaineer;  but  Pete's  life  at  the 
mine,  and  his  weary  tramps  through  the  moun 
tains  preceding  the  meeting  of  Eliot  and  his 
brother,  stood  him  in  good  stead  now  as  he 
swung  along  behind  the  leader,  face  set  hard, 
and  eyes  grimly  fastened  on  the  distant  peak 
that  marked  the  trail's  end.  Eliot  had  said  the 
journey  would  carry  them  thirty  miles  at  least, 
but  when  he  had  pointed  out  the  peak,  Pete 
felt  that  the  distance  had  been  over-estimated 
by  at  least  one-half.  Now  at  the  end  of  the 
third  day  he  was  beginning  to  feel  that  if  the 
breed  had  been  at  fault  in  his  guess,  it  was  be 
cause  he  had  grossly  underestimated  the  dis 
tance. 

Scarcely  a  word  passed  between  the  men 
as  they  made  their  third  camp.  Eliot  seemed 
to  devote  his  entire  attention  to  long  and  anx 
ious  looks  at  little  flecks  of  clouds  that  gath 
ered  like  puffs  of  fluffy  cotton  about  the  setting 
sun.  Pete  saw  his  worried  look  and  asked  its 
meaning. 

'The  sun-dogs — they  are  come,"  he  an 
swered  solemnly. 

"Sun-dogs?"  Pete  looked  at  the  queer  dots 
of  clouds  about  the  sun — "What  is  the  meaning 
of  that?" 

"When   sun-dog — she   come — they  ees   al- 


226  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

ways  much  bad  storm  in  mountain.  It  ees  bet 
ter  we  stay  heer,  tree — mebbe  five  day." 

Pete  made  no  comment,  but  as  he  ate  his 
frugal  supper  of  corn,  dried  fish  and  snow 
water  biscuits,  he  joined  Eliot  in  many  anxious 
glances  at  the  evening  sky. 

Darkness  again  found  them  nestling  be 
tween  huge  boulders,  Pete,  as  always  on  the 
outside,  sleeping  with  his  right  hand  firmly 
gripped  about  the  butt  of  his  long  barreled 
gun. 

As  they  emerged  for  breakfast  on  the  fol 
lowing  morning,  Pete  hastened  to  survey  the 
sky  for  signs  of  the  predicted  storm.  He  noted 
with  much  relief  that  the  sun  was  already  creep 
ing  slowly  over  the  distant  crags,  and  that,  save 
for  a  slight  wind  that  came  floating  over  the 
frozen  surface  of  the  snow,  there  was  no  ma 
terial  change  in  the  weather  from  the  past  four 
days. 

Breakfast  finished,  Eliot  filled  his  pipe  and 
remained  sitting  on  the  canvas  of  his  pack. 

"Come  on,  it  is  already  late,"  Pete  grunted, 
as  he  prepared  his  own  pack  for  the  day's 
march. 

"Eliot — he  ees  stay  heer — sun-dog — she 
warn  heem,"  the  breed  replied  slowly,  but  with 
evident  finality. 

"Sun-dogs,  or  no  sun-dogs,  we're  starting," 
Pete  growled  in  reply,  and  as  he  uttered  the 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  227 

words,  he  gave  his  belt  a  vicious  hitch,  throw 
ing  the  holster  of  his  guns  into  a  more  promi 
nent  and  accessible  position. 

Eliot  slowly  drew  up  his  shoulders  into  a 
long,  exasperated  shrug,  such  as  only  a  half- 
breed  could  make;  a  shrug  that  said  more 
plainly  than  words:  "Go  ahead  if  you  are  fool 
enough;  but  I'm  staying  here." 

Pete  was  in  no  humor  for  an  argument. 
The  excessive  hard  pace  of  the  past  few  days, 
coupled  with  his  intense  anxiety  to  know  if  Eliot 
had  told  the  truth  concerning  the  fate  of  Haw 
kins,  caused  him  to  shout  short  and  ugly  words 
at  the  shrugging  breed. 

"You  come  now,  Eliot,  or  by  God  you  stay 
here  forever."  With  the  words  Pete  ripped 
a  gun  from  its  holster,  and  pointing  it  straight 
at  Eliot's  head,  continued: 

"Come — you  move — get  started — we  trav 
el  or  I  travel  alone,  and  you  quit  traveling  for 
good." 

With  a  sullen  and  murderous  look  Eliot 
slowly  got  to  his  feet  and  rolled  his  pack.  A 
few  minutes  later  the  two  were  once  more  on 
the  move. 

By  noon,  the  sun  was  nearly  hidden  behind 
a  dark  grey  veil  that  seemed  to  form  like  an 
other  sky  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see.  The 
gentle  breeze,  as  though  encouraged  by  the  re 
treat  of  the  sun,  now  came  in  strong  and  yet 


228  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

stronger  gusts  over  the  bare  spots  in  the  un 
broken  snow  about  them,  stopping  here  and 
there  to  send  little  twists  of  swirling  white  be 
fore  it.  Pete  had  seen  storms  in  the  mountains 
before,  but  never  had  he  been  abroad  in  one 
of  them.  On  the  night  he  left  the  Dead  Horse 
Mine  there  had  been  a  storm;  but  only  an  or 
derly  snow  fall,  compared  with  the  storm  that 
seemed  to  be  gathering  about  him  now. 

More  than  once  he  felt  pangs  of  regret  at 
his  harsh  treatment  of  Eliot,  as  the  conviction 
grew  that,  after  all,  the  'breed  must  have  known 
best.  As  they  forged  silently  ahead,  Pete  ob 
served  the  marked  absence  of  broken  rock  and 
boulders.  They  were  passing  through  the  last 
bit  of  broken  country,  it  seemed.  Out  through 
scrub  cedars  ahead  Pete  could  see  a  wide  white 
expanse  of  snow  that  stretched  away  in  a 
smooth  and  unbroken  sheet  like  the  waters  of 
a  placid  lake.  He  glanced  back  and  up  at 
where  the  sun  should  be;  and  gave  a  sigh  of 
relief  at  what  seemed  like  a  break  in  the  clouds. 
Perhaps  the  storm  would  end  in  snow  fall 
alone,  and  then  pass  on.  He  hesitated  a  mo 
ment,  and  was  impressed  with  the  mildness  of 
the  temperature.  Even  the  wind  had  died 
down.  As  they  passed  through  the  last  of  the 
cedars  Eliot  stopped  short  and  pointed  straight 
ahead  of  him.  There,  from  behind  a  clump 
of  trees,  came  a  procession  of  lean  gaunt  wol- 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  229 

ves,  looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  left,  and 
apparently  unconcerned  at  the  presence  of  the 
men,  for  they  passed  within  twelve  feet  of 
where  Pete  and  Eliot  stood;  six  of  them,  all 
hungry-looking  beasts  as  they  trailed  past  with 
ears  flattened  against  their  heads  and  tongues 
hanging  red  and  hot  from  half-open  mouths 
that  exposed  gleaming  white  teeth. 

Pete  stood  stock-still  as  though  bewildered 
by  the  strange  procession;  then  Eliot  turned  to 
him. 

"Eet  ees  the  warning  again.  When  the 
wolf  she  walk  like  that — bad  storm  come  to 
mountain;  eet  ees  better  we  queet." 

Pete  glanced  hurriedly  about  the  scattered 
cedars.  Nothing  even  approaching  a  camp  site 
fit  for  securing  a  prisoner  throughout  a  storm, 
could  be  seen.  He  looked  out  across  the  white 
expanse  ahead  and  beyond  to  the  jagged  out 
lines  of  the  rugged  mountain  that  bordered  the 
far  side  of  the  open  expanse.  He  looked  long 
and  carefully  before  he  answered  Eliot.  That 
mountain  side,  not  five  hours'  away  it  seemed, 
could  answer  the  question  that  had  never  left 
him  for  months.  It  would  at  least  tell  him  if 
he  might  again  see  Brud  Hawkins  and  Tarn 
alive. 

"No,"  he  fairly  shouted,  "we  go  on — and 
on — it  is  only  your  superstitions!"  Then  he 
added  as  though  to  apologize  for  his  harshness, 


230  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

"See,  the  wind  is  down  and  the  air  seems  warm. 
Keep  going,  Eliot,  straight  for  that  mountain!" 
As  he  finished  his  words,  he  pointed  with  his 
gun  to  the  distant  outlines  ahead. 

No  mercenary  ever  faced  the  enemy  with 
greater  reluctance  than  Eliot,  who,  leaving  the 
scant  protection  of  the  cedars,  plunged  at  Pete's 
fanatical  command  out  into  the  snow  field 
ahead. 

The  icy  crust  upon  which  they  walked 
scarcely  held  their  weight,  as  time  after  time 
they  floundered  helplessly  up  to  their  hips  in 
snow  before  they  could  gain  the  frozen  surface. 
Here,  too,  in  the  wide  open,  Pete  soon  learned 
that  the  wind,  far  from  having  died  down,  had 
only  changed  its  course.  Before,  it  had  come 
in  irregular  gusts,  only  occasionally  becoming 
strong  enough  to  stir  up  the  snow;  while  now 
it  came  with  steady  full  force,  uninterrupted  by 
trees  or  boulders. 

Within  half  an  hour  after  leaving  the  shel 
ter,  the  mercury  seemed  to  drop  like  magic, 
and  a  new  kind  of  cold,  one  that  permeated  his 
very  lungs  and  fairly  dried  them  up,  came 
down  with  the  wind. 

Pete  followed  the  example  of  Eliot  in  front 
and  pulled  his  fur  cap  well  down  over  his  face. 
He  was  used  to  the  rigors  of  winter,  but  not  to 
this.  With  the  wind  came  snow.  Not  from 
the  clouds  above,  it  was  too  cold  for  that,  only 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  231 

fine  drifting  snow,  gathered  in  little  hard  crys 
tals  from  the  broad  expanse  about  him,  whirled 
with  the  wind.  Little  by  little  the  air  filled  with 
it,  and  Pete  found  it  necessary  to  keep  closer 
and  closer  to  the  back  of  the  'breed,  lest  he  lose 
him  in  the  dense  flurry.  Eliot  did  his  work  well 
and  with  head  bent  over,  face  almost  to  the 
snow  at  his  feet,  he  kept  doggedly  at  it.  Pete 
knew  by  the  continued  stinging  of  wind  on  his 
right  cheek  that  their  direction  was  true,  al 
though  it  was  impossible,  even  between  blasts 
of  wind,  to  see  more  than  a  dozen  feet  ahead. 

Gritting  his  teeth  with  determination,  Pete 
followed  doggedly  behind  the  'breed,  straining 
under  the  double  task  of  keeping  directly  be 
hind  him  and  balancing  himself  from  being 
swept  over  from  the  force  of  the  wind  against 
his  double  burden  of  packs.  For  hours,  it 
seemed,  they  fought  thus  until  at  length  a  sick 
ening  feeling  in  his  heart  and  lungs  warned 
Pete  of  the  terrible  strain  he  was  under. 
Phlegm,  hot  and  stringy,  came  from  his  throat 
and  seemed  to  choke  him  as  desperately  he  tried 
to  keep  up  with  Eliot.  But  the  mad  struggle 
weakened  the  'breed  quickly  and  even  as  Pete 
struggled  to  keep  up,  he  saw  Eliot,  like  a  fan 
tastic  white  curve,  waver  in  his  tracks  and  fall 
to  the  snow.  A  moment  there,  and  he  once 
more  struggled  to  his  feet,  and  staggered  on. 

Their  faces  no  longer  registered  the  direc- 


232  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

tion  of  the  wind,  and  only  the  law  of  nature 
that  causes  man  in  his  extremity  to  follow  the 
course  of  least  resistance,  guided  them  now. 
Even  in  his  thumping  brain,  Pete  knew  that 
this  meant  wandering  far  from  their  true 
course,  for  wind  at  their  backs  would  send  them 
straight  along  the  frozen  plain,  and  not  across 
it.  Yet  resistance  was  useless;  even  his  iron 
determination  could  not  force  his  body  against 
such  terrible  odds. 

Eliot  was  fast  weakening,  and  time  after 
time  he  literally  swooned  against  the  body  of 
Pete,  who  came  directly  back  of  him.  Slowly 
Pete  realized  that  further  progress  with  the 
two  packs  on  his  back  would  be  impossible. 
The  thought  of  releasing  them  seemed 
strangely  pleasant  and  he  loosed  them  to  the 
mercy  of  the  ravaging  wind  and  snow.  The 
relief  thus  afforded  strengthened  him  to  a  re 
newed  effort,  and  for  fully  an  hour  he  kept  on, 
huddled  close  to  Eliot.  At  the  end  of  an 
hour,  however,  his  heart,  already  swollen 
with  much  violent  pounding,  until  it  seemed  to 
be  the  only  burden  his  weary  legs  supported, 
sank  in  hopelessness  as  Eliot  stumbled  heavily 
forward,  and  lay  quietly  in  the  snow.  Pete 
leaned  over  him,  and  as  he  did  so,  his  feet 
bumped  into  the  obstruction  that  had  tripped 
the  breed.  With  a  faint  curiosity,  more  an  ex 
cuse  for  letting  up  for  a  moment,  perhaps,  he 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  233 

bent  over,  as  though  to  see  what  it  was  that 
lay  there,  hidden  in  the  blinding  wind  and  snow. 
As  he  did  so  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  brown 
canvas,  just  a  corner,  freed  of  snow  for  an 
instant.  That  instant  was  enough,  for  Pete 
recognized  the  packs  he  had  released  more  than 
an  hour  before  !  Then,  with  the  sickening  real 
ization  that  they  had  indeed  been  traveling  in  a 
circle,  he,  too,  for  a  moment  lost  courage  and 
sank  down  beside  the  prostrate  form  of  Eliot. 
But  only  for  a  moment.  The  physical  man  was 
nearly  spent  and  now  the  inner  being — the  in 
tangible  something,  that  brings  dreams  of  dan 
ger  even  to  sleeping  children — spoke  to  him. 

"Don't  quit!  Don't  quit!  You  will  die  if 
you  stop!  Keep  trying!  Get  up!"  it  shouted. 

Pete  felt  his  body  moving  again.  Automat 
ically  he  struggled  to  raise  Eliot.  Violently  as 
possible,  he  slapped  him  in  the  face,  and  kicked 
at  his  body.  A  minute  longer,  and  he  would 
have  been  too  late.  But  Eliot,  too,  it  seemed, 
was  to  struggle  awhile  longer  before  giv 
ing  up  to  the  impelling  lure  of  sleep.  Slowly 
he  staggered  to  his  knees,  then  to  his  feet,  and 
the  two  started  again  on  their  wavering  course 
along  the  path  of  the  blizzard,  each,  it  seemed, 
leaning  on  the  other.  It  was  well  that  such  was 
the  case,  for  when  Pete  would  sag  and  bend 
toward  the  snow,  Eliot  would  support  him, 


234  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

and  when  Eliot  would  seem  to  surrender  once 
again,  Pete  would  be  the  supporting  one. 

Thus  they  continued  their  desperate  fight 
until  Pete  at  length  was  no  longer  conscious  of 
his  effort.  He  seemed  to  be  obeying  only  the 
voice  within.  It  kept  urging  him  on  and  on, 
its  loud  shouting  seeming  to  rise  even  above 
yet  another  voice  that  counseled  rest;  sweet 
peaceful  slumber,  where  all  was  warm  and 
beautiful.  The  first  voice  seemed  harsh  and 
commanding  and  hurt  him  with  its  shout 
ings;  the  second  one,  mild  and  soft  yet  tender 
beyond  words!  Thus  the  dual  fight  within 
raged  on,  while  the  men  continued  their  dog 
ged,  grim  fight.  Eliot  answered  the  lure  of 
the  tempter  first  and  fell  heavily  to  the  snow, 
going  limp  as  he  sank  like  a  man  shot  through 
the  heart.  He  had  swooned  many  times  be 
fore,  but  this  time,  Pete  knew  even  in  his  delir 
ious  brain  that  the  end  was  near  for  the  'breed. 

Perhaps  the  thought  that  he  was  responsi 
ble,  something  at  least,  inspired  a  last  frantic 
effort  that  spurred  Pete  on  to  grasp  the  arm  of 
the  fallen  man,  and  make  a  final  effort  to  drag 
him  along. 

As  he  did  so  the  loud  voice  within  seemed 
to  leave  him,  and  to  take  a  position  just 
ahead;  yes,  even  the  other  voice  had  gone  out, 
and  both  seemed  to  call  him  on  through  the 
murdering  cold  of  the  icy  blasts.  In  answer  to 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  235 

them  he  tugged  with  all  his  feeble  strength ;  the 
body  moved,  and  he  tugged  again.  The  body 
came  ever  closer,  as  foot  by  foot  he  worked, 
struggling  only  to  bring  his  burden  to  the  danc 
ing  voices  that  promised  sleep  and  rest.  He 
was  coming  closer  and  closer!  And  as  he 
tugged,  it  seemed  his  breath  stayed  with  him 
longer,  even  the  blinding  snow  grew  fainter, 
and  he  feared  in  a  dazed  way  that  he  was  asleep 
already!  But,  no!  The  voices  were  still  ahead, 
and  he  tugged  once  more.  A  few  more  frantic 
pulls  and  something  at  his  back  held  him  fast. 
The  wind  seemed  suddenly  far  away!  With 
great  effort  he  turned  his  head,  and  as  he  did  so 
his  face  brushed  against  sharp  branches.  Then 
he  let  his  burden  drop  and  raised  his  hands.  A 
tree  !  He  was  among  trees !  He  could  sleep  ! 
Ah — sweet,  sweet  sleep!  Then,  the  sudden 
absence  of  sense  deadening  wind  cleared  his 
brain  for  a  fleeting  moment.  He  was  cold 
— horribly  cold,  and  he  must  have  a  fire ! 
Mechanically  he  streched  out  his  arms,  and  felt 
his  numbed  hands  come  in  contact  with  branches 
that  resisted  stubbornly.  Leaning  heavily  upon 
them  he  felt  them  give,  and  heard  the  riflecrack 
that  he  had  come  to  know  so  well — the  sound 
of  cold  dry  branches  breaking  and  splintering 
beneath  his  weight.  Like  a  man  in  a  dream  he 
gathered  up  the  splinters  and  broken  branches 
from  the  frozen  snow  and  added  others  to  the 


236  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

pile.  A  moment  more  and  he  was  fumbling 
feebly  at  the  match  box  that  hung  from  his 
belt.  But  time  and  again,  as  he  tried  to  open 
it,  he  failed.  At  last  with  a  desperate  effort 
he  placed  it  between  his  teeth.  The  frozen 
steel  box  seemed  to  burn  his  lips  and  tongue, 
before  at  last  it  opened.  All  but  one  of  the 
precious  matches  he  dropped,  as  he  shook  the 
full  box  into  his  gloved  hand.  Grasping  the 
remaining  stick  as  best  he  could  in  both  hands, 
he  struck  it  against  the  side  of  a  split  branch, 
and  watched  as  though  in  a  dream  the  tiny  red 
flame  lick  into  the  resinous  splinters  of  the  piled 
wood  before  him. 

As  the  flames  leaped  higher  and  higher  they 
spread  into  the  unbroken  branches  of  the  clump 
of  scrub  trees  about,  and  soon  a  raging  fire 
sent  its  flames  high  into  the  branches  overhead 
and  ate  hungrily  into  the  snow  beneath.  For  a 
time  it  seemed  that  Pete  would  still  lose  the 
reward  of  his  mighty  efforts,  for  as  the  fire 
roared  there  before  him,  he  swayed  back  and 
forth,  now  toward  it,  now  out  from  it,  as 
though  to  give  up  the  fight,  and  seek  the  peace 
ful  slumber  that  had  lured  him  on.  But  as  the 
warmth  increased  to  severe  heat,  his  deadened 
senses  seemed  to  melt,  and  he  faintly  realized 
that  the  man  lying  beside  him  was  slowly  but 
surely  sleeping  the  sleep  of  death.  Roused  to 
action  by  the  thought,  he  dragged  the  'breed 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  237 

near  the  fire,  hoping  the  pain  of  thawing  flesh 
would  waken  him. 

The  effort  to  revive  the  half  frozen  Eliot 
increased  his  own  circulation,  and  soon  he  was 
able  to  gather  armfuls  of  brittle  branches  from 
trees  about  him,  and  add  them  to  the  roaring 
fire,  which  now  had  melted  a  huge  hole,  nearly 
to  the  frozen  ground  beneath  the  snow.  Into 
this  sheltered  pocket  Pete  drew  the  'breed,  rub 
bing  his  face  and  hands  with  snow,  and  rolling 
him  as  roughly  as  his  weakened  state  would 
permit,  about  the  floor  of  the  shelter.  Outside, 
and  only  a  dozen  feet  or  more  from  him,  the 
blizzard  still  raged  in  all  its  fury;  but  he  had 
no  mind  or  thought  for  the  course  or  direction 
of  the  storm,  nor  for  the  providence  of  nature 
that  had  so  miraculously  brought  him  to  this 
haven  of  shelter  among  stunted  trees  that  clus 
tered  about  a  pile  of  jutting  rocks  and  boulders. 

At  length  Eliot  opened  his  eyes  and 
groaned  in  pain  as  the  heat  increased  in  the 
narrow  hole,  and  sent  warm  blood  against 
frozen  flesh.  Pete,  overcome  by  the  superhu 
man  efforts  of  his  fight  against  the  wild  bliz 
zard,  staggered  heavily  over  the  slowly  reviv 
ing  Eliot,  and  slept. 

How  long  into  the  night  he  had  slept,  he 
knew  not,  when  suddenly  the  sting  of  flame 
against  the  flesh  of  his  hand  aroused  him.  The 
fire  had  crept  into  the  pile  of  branches  he  had 


238  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

failed  to  throw  onto  the  burning  heap,  and  a 
moment  more  would  have  seen  not  only  his 
gloved  hand,  but  the  fur  of  his  coat  as  well,  a 
mass  of  flames. 

Eliot  was  still  sleeping  when  Pete  awoke, 
his  troubled  breathing  indicating  that  he  suf 
fered  intensely  even  as  he  slept;  and  Pete  did 
not  disturb  him. 

The  storm  without  had  apparently  died 
down,  and  as  Pete  looked  about  he  tried  to  get 
an  impression  that  would  help  him  locate  his 
refuge  in  the  country  he  remembered.  His  eyes 
were  swollen,  and  icicles  still  hung  like  crystals 
from  his  brows.  At  first  he  could  see  nothing 
in  the  semi-darkness  as  he  struggled  painfully 
to  his  feet,  brushed  the  obstructions  from  be 
fore  his  eyes,  and  stared  fixedly  out  into  the 
milky  white  night. 

Something  far  out  before  him  caused  him 
to  start  and  again  brush  his  eyes.  A  light,  it 
seemed,  was  shining  somewhere  out  in  the  great 
expanse  before  him.  He  watched  it  breath 
lessly,  as  he  gradually  recalled  the  significance 
of  a  light.  Ah,  it  moved!  He  counted  the 
swings — two — four — six — they  had  no  mean 
ing — there  were  too  many  of  them.  Then  a 
sudden  thought  struck  him  and  set  him  to  gath 
ering  a  handful  of  the  broken  branches  from 
beneath  his  feet.  He  bundled  them  into  a 
torch,  stuck  them  for  a  moment  into  the  blazing 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  239 

fire  and  crawled  laboriously  out  of  the  pit. 
Raising  his  flaming  torch  on  high  he  waved  it 
back  and  forth  in  a  great  arc,  and  watched 
breathlessly  for  the  answer.  The  light,  wher 
ever  it  was,  stopped  in  the  middle  of  a  swing,  as 
Pete  commenced  his  own  waving,  and  for  a 
moment  the  mysterious  light  disappeared 
entirely.  Then  Pete  lowered  his  torch  in  front 
of  him,  and  tried  desperately  to  recall  the  signal 
code  he  had  received  from  Tarn.  At  last 
it  came  to  him  and  with  slow,  wide  swings  he 
sent  the  message :  "Come  to  the  light." 

Instantly  the  other  light  came  into  sight 
again,  moved  rapidly  straight  up  and  down,  and 
faded  from  view.  Forgetting  for  a  moment 
the  intense  pain  of  his  frost-bitten  limbs,  Pete 
hobbled  back  into  the  pit,  threw  arms  full  of 
wood  on  the  fire,  and  waited. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

A  S  the  heavy  grey  blanket  of  early  morning 
**  thinned  and  melted  into  the  cold  glim 
mering  white  of  day,  Pete  gathered  more  wood 
from  the  thickets  about  him,  and  once  more 
ministered  to  the  agonized  Eliot.  The  fitful 
slumber  into  which  the  'breed  had  fallen  lasted 
only  until  the  more  urgent  demands  of  nature 
had  been  satisfied,  then  it  gave  way  to  pangs  of 
excruciating  pain  as  Pete  rubbed  snow  with  all 
the  vigor  his  own  exhausted  muscles  would  per 
mit.  At  first  the  entire  right  arm  and  leg  of 
the  'breed  seemed  done  for;  but  as  Pete  ob 
served  the  pain  increase  in  intensity  as  he  rub 
bed,  he  began  to  hope  that  the  limbs  might  yet 
be  saved. 

So  ardently  did  he  set  to  his  work,  that 
nearly  an  hour  elapsed  before  he  renewed  the 
vigil  he  had  been  keeping  on  the  white  expanse 
of  snow  that  stretched  away  in  the  direction 
from  which  he  had  seen  the  light  in  the  early 
morning  darkness. 

Now,  with  the  sudden  realization  that  his 
quest  for  Hawkins  and  Tarn  might  soon  be 
ended,  he  made  once  more  for  the  surface  of 
the  snow,  and  peered  anxiously  about.  His 
eyes  were  still  swollen  and  dim;  but  as  he  took 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  241 

in  the  country  about  him,  he  at  length  discov 
ered  that  he  and  Eliot  had  indeed  traveled 
through  the  blizzard  in  a  great  circle,  finally  re 
turning  to  the  very  edge  of  the  rough  mountain 
side  from  which  Eliot  had  been  so  reluctant  to 
move.  They  were  perhaps  two  miles  below 
the  spot  where  the  wolves  had  passed  them, 
Pete  guessed,  as  he  strained  his  burning  tear- 
smeared  eyes  for  some  indication  of  the  com 
ing  of  the  messengers  he  knew  must  be  on  the 
way. 

Faintly,  as  though  looking  through  a  mist, 
he  distinguished  objects  moving  in  the  far  dis 
tance.  Closer  and  closer  they  came,  but  yet 
he  could  not  describe  them.  For  fully  half  an 
hour  he  stood  there  with  his  gloved  hand  shad 
ing  his  eyes  against  the  snow-glare  which  was 
already  assuming  painful  proportions  as  the 
sun  mounted  higher  and  higher  in  the  wintry 
sky.  Time  after  time  he  brushed  the  mist  of  icy 
tears  from  his  streaming  eyes  until  they  were 
sore  and  raw  from  the  rubbing.  At  last  he 
made  out  the  distant  forms  of  two  men  that 
loomed  suddenly  large  and  vigorous  against 
the  white  background  of  snow.  Now  and  again 
as  he  followed  their  course  they  would  seem 
to  be  lost  behind  great  hummocks  and  billows 
of  drifted  snow,  while  in  the  clear  spaces  they 
glided  in  long  graceful  swing  as  though  on  run 
ners.  As  they  approached  he  made  out  the  out- 


242  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

lines  of  a  long  and  narrow  sleigh  that  trailed 
behind  them. 

As  Pete  watched  the  approach  of  the  men 
they  seemed,  on  coming  close,  to  slacken  their 
pace  and  gaze  uncertainly  along  the  fringe  of 
cedar  and  rock,  as  though  not  sure  which  way 
to  go.  Seeing  their  evident  confusion,  Pete 
started  for  the  open,  hoping  to  find  a  vantage 
point,  from  which  he  could  signal.  As  he  tried 
to  walk,  his  limbs  refused  to  obey  and  seemed 
to  hang  like  lead  to  his  body.  Determinedly 
he  dragged  them  after  him,  half  crawling  and 
half  walking  to  the  point  he  selected,  not  fif 
teen  feet  away.  At  length  he  reached  the  spot, 
and  with  great  difficulty  waved  his  arms  and 
opened  his  mouth  to  shout  a  welcome.  But 
his  lips  were  swollen  and  clumsy  and  even  his 
tongue  seemed  to  forget  how  to  form  the 
words  he  would  say.  With  another  brace  of  his 
feet,  as  he  made  to  wave  his  hands,  the  crust 
of  snow  beneath  gave  away  and  he  floundered 
up  to  his  arm  pits  in  the  fine  frozen  snow  be 
neath. 

Vainly  Pete  tried  to  clamber  out  of  the 
snow,  but  it  was  no  use.  He  could  only  wait 
now  for  the  coming  of  the  rescuers  who  seemed 
still  to  hesitate  on  their  way.  He  worked  his 
body  about,  and  looked  back  at  the  pit  in  which 
the  smouldering  fire  must  still  be  burning.  As 
he  looked,  he  observed  a  thin  line  of  pale  blue 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  243 

smoke  rise  above  the  level  of  the  snow,  as 
though  new  dry  wood  had  been  added  to  the 
hot  coals.  Seeing  this,  the  signal  he  himself 
should  have  thought  of  sending,  he  gave  up  his 
efforts  to  regain  the  frozen  surface  of  snow, 
and  watched  the  approaching  men  who  had  ap 
parently  seen  the  smoke,  and  were  now  hurrying 
directly  toward  him. 

Scarcely  an  hour  elapsed  before  he  heard 
the  swish  of  snow-shoes  and  the  strong  voices 
of  men  talking.  A  moment  later  he  was  look 
ing  up  into  the  face  of  Brud  Hawkins.  For  a 
moment  the  mountaineer  stood  there,  plainly 
puzzled  at  what  he  saw.  Pete's  long  bushy 
hair  falling  in  snarled  masses  from  beneath  his 
fur  cap,  together  with  the  white  mantle  of  fro 
zen  beard,  made  a  mask  through  which  no  one 
could  have  recognized  the  clean-cut  features  of 
Peter  Alden,  as  Hawkins  remembered  him. 

"Who  are  you,  man?"  the  latter  shouted. 
"My  God,  you're  frozen!  Here,  Bannerie, 
let's  get  him  out!" 

Hawkins,  assisted  by  his  companion, 
grasped  Pete's  outstretched  arms  and  after 
much  effort  got  him  to  the  solid  surface  of  the 
snow  again. 

Once  on  his  feet,  Peter  threw  his  arms 
slowly  about  Hawkins,  and  muttered:  "Alden, 
— I'm  Alden — thank  God — I — find — you — 
alive." 


244  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

From  the  scene  that  followed  it  would  be 
difficult  to  tell  which  of  the  two  men  was  the 
rescuer  and  which  the  rescued.  Long  and  fer 
vently  they  shook  hands,  patted  each  other  on 
the  shoulders,  and  tried  to  talk.  But  Pete  could 
say  little,  and  from  sheer  emotion,  Hawkins 
could  do  no  better. 

At  length,  the  first  greetings  over,  Haw 
kins  and  his  friend,  who  appeared  to  Pete's 
misty  eyes,  to  be  also  a  half-breed — though  a 
man  much  larger  and  with  finer  features  than 
those  possessed  by  either  Eliot  or  his  brother, 
Pierre — succeeded  in  getting  both  the  badly 
frozen  Eliot  and  himself  upon  the  long  narrow 
sleigh  they  had  brought  with  them,  and  with 
powerful  sweeping  strides,  made  once  more 
across  the  broad  expanse  of  snow.  First  Haw 
kins  and  then  Bannerie  would  pull  at  the  raw 
hide  rope  that  held  the  sleigh  as  they  sped 
along,  but  more  often  it  was  necessary  only  to 
give  it  an  occasional  tug,  so  easily  did  it  glide 
over  the  frozen  surface. 

What  would  have  been  a  half  day's  journey 
for  Pete  and  Eliot,  Hawkins  and  his  companion 
now  completed  in  less  than  half  that  time ;  and 
before  Pete  could  realize  the  distance  traveled 
he  observed  the  presence  of  boulders,  stunted 
trees,  and  the  sharp  slope  of  a  hill  that  in 
dicated  the  approaching  end  of  the  journey. 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  245 

A  little  later  Pete  answered  the  voice  that 
had  counseled  sweet  sleep  only  a  few  hours 
before.  But  now  there  was  no  disturbing  com 
mand  that  racked  his  very  brain  and  tormented 
him  to  further  effort.  Instead,  he  slept,  long 
and  soundly,  turning  his  weary,  aching  body  un 
consciously  as  though  it  wished  to  make  certain 
that  it  was  indeed  once  more  resting  on  a  soft 
warm  mattress. 

His  eyes  for  weeks  past  had  been  accus 
tomed,  on  awakening,  to  look  out  upon  early 
morning  in  all  its  radiant  glory,  and  always 
the  grandeur  of  it  had  thrilled  him.  Now, 
as  he  opened  his  eyes  after  long  hours  of  sleep, 
his  gaze  rested  upon  the  masterpiece  itself  of 
the  handiwork  of  God — full  upon  the  face  of 
a  beautiful  woman,  bending  tenderly  over  him, 
administering  the  while  warm  fragrant  oil  to 
the  crusted  skin  beneath  his  shaggy  beard. 

During  his  sleep  his  lips  had  returned  to 
something  resembling  their  normal  shape,  and 
he  found  he  could  mutter  words,  as  he  ex 
claimed  :  "Tarn — you,  too — here  !  Thank  God ! 
Both  of  you — Hawkins  and  Tarn!" 

"Yes— Mr.  Alden,"  Tarn  replied,  "we  are 
both  here — and  your  patient  is  much  better  than 
his  doctor — aren't  you,  Mr.  Hawkins?" 

Hawkins  was  there,  sitting  on  the  edge  of 
the  bed,  and  could  speak  for  himself.  But  be 
fore  he  could  utter  a  word,  Pete  replied: 


246  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

"No  wonder — with  such  a  nurse!"  Then 
he  stopped  short  as  he  noticed  the  slight  frown 
and  troubled  look  that  came  over  the  face  of 
the  girl,  as  she  gathered  her  bottles  and  linen 
from  the  bed.  For  a  moment  she  seemed  un 
decided  whether  to  carry  them  from  the  room, 
or  to  remain.  She  hesitated  only  a  moment 
however,  and  then  called  a  French  name  which 
Pete  could  not  understand. 

The  object  of  the  call  soon  appeared  in  the 
low  doorway  that  separated  the  "lean-to"  or 
built-on  bedroom  from  the  rest  of  the  cabin. 

"Here,  Marie,  please  take  these  out,  and  see 
what  you  can  do  for  Jacques  Eliot.  He  seems 
to  be  suffering  very  much,"  Tarn  directed,  as 
the  woman  approached. 

"Now,  Pete,"  Hawkins  began,  "when  you 
are  ready,  tell  me  how  you  feel — what  you 
have  done — how  it  has  all  happened.  My 
God!  If  you  could  see  yourself.  Tarn,  for 
heaven's  sake  bring  old  Dannie's  mirror."  He 
finished  with  an  amused  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

Pete's  eyes  followed  the  girl  across  the 
room  as  she  went  for  the  mirror.  He  thought 
there  was  a  twinkle  in  her  eyes  also  as  she  held 
it  before  him,  and  he  looked  intently  as  though 
to  make  certain. 

"The  mirror,  man — look  in  the  mirror," 
Hawkins  broke  in,  his  good  natured  old  face 
wreathed  in  smiles. 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  247 

Caught  in  the  pardonable  act  of  staring 
at  the  first  girl  he  had  seen  in  months,  Pete 
grasped  the  mirror  in  confusion,  and  then 
gazed  at  what  he  saw  much  like  a  frightened 
child  watching  the  antics  of  a  suspended  spider. 

The  image  in  the  mirror  brought  him  to 
a  sitting  posture  with  a  jerk — a  jerk  that  only 
accentuated  the  distorted  vision  he  beheld  in 
the  glass.  Hair,  great  masses  of  it,  made  his 
head  and  face  seem  three  times  the  size  he  re 
membered  it  to  be.  Little  red  gimlets  where  his 
eyes  should  be  looked  out  of  shaggy  holes  in 
the  woolly  mass ;  wherever  he  could  see  skin,  it 
seemed  red  and  crusted,  or  black  from  its  recent 
frost  bite.  For  a  moment  he  was  held  speech 
less  by  the  spectacle.  Then  pushing  the  glass 
violently  from  him,  he  said  to  Hawkins : 

"For  a  long  while  I've  been  thinking  the 
most  important  thing  in  the  world  was  to 
save  you,  the  Dead  Horse  Mine,  and" — he 
seemed  about  to  include  Tarn,  when  an  expres 
sion  on  her  baffling  face  stopped  him — "and 
so-on,"  he  continued,  "but  now,  I  know  the 
most  important  thing  in  the  world  is  to  get  to 
a  barber  shop  and  a  bath  tub.  Great  Moses! 
There  isn't  a  barber  shop  in  the  world  that 
would  let  me  through  the  door !  Do  you  sup 
pose  that  fellow  at  the  store  in  Moapa  has 
saved  my  togs?" 

Tarn  smiled  faintly,  perhaps  a  little  wist- 


248  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

fully,  while  Hawkins  in  spite  of  his  worried 
face,  laughed  at  Pete's  consternation. 

"Well,"  Hawkins  finally  found  breath 
enough  to  remark,  "you're  a  mighty  lucky 
young  man  that  you  aren't  in  the  fix  of  your 
traveling  mate,  Eliot,  in  there.  How  in  the 
world  that  'breed  up  and  gets  caught  in  a  bliz 
zard,  and  you  don't,  beats  me." 

"And  I  don't?"  Pete  stormed,  "and  I 
don't? — I'm  half  frozen — right  now.  We 
were  together  all  the  time." 

"Ah,  yes,  so  you  were.  But  you  kept  mov 
ing.  Two  days  here  and  your  frost  bites  will 
be  gone.  The  'breed  in  there  will  be  on  his 
back  for  a  month.  But  come,  tell  me — I'm 
dying  to  know  how " 

"Dinner  first,  Mr.  Hawkins,"  Tarn  admon 
ished,  "let  the  poor  man  eat.  He  must  be 
starved;  aren't  you,  Mr.  Alden?" 

"Quite,"  agreed  Pete.  "And  anyhow,  it's 
you  folks'  story  first,  then  mine." 

Susie  summoned  the  woman  again,  and  this 
time  took  from  her  a  steaming  bowl  of  broth, 
a  huge  tin  plate  of  what  looked  to  Pete  like  the 
finest  roast  meat  he  had  ever  seen,  and  several 
other  steaming  dishes  that  filled  the  room  with 
the  stimulating  odor  of  a  savory  meal. 

As  Pete  ate,  Hawkins  entered  into  his  story. 

"Well,"  he  began,  "guess  you  know  how 
things  stood  when  they  packed  me  into  that 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  249 

low  wagon  box  on  runners.  For  the  life  of  me 
I  couldn't  and  can't  yet  see  why  they  wanted 
to  do  away  with  me.  Thought  at  first  they 
wanted  the  Dead  Horse — knew  they  did  in 
fact,  from  the  way  their  lawyer  and  Demons 
had  been  hounding  me.  But  that  didn't  explain 
why  that  gangster  fellow,  Buller  Garret,  got 
so  poison  mad  at  me.  Later  on  I  found  out  he 
was  in  love  with  Susie,  here."  At  this  Susie 
blushed  violently  and  made  as  if  to  carry  out 
some  of  Pete's  discarded  dishes.  Hawkins, 
however,  seemingly  unaware  of  the  embarrass 
ment  caused  the  girl,  continued:  "And  he  got 
it  into  his  head  that  I  was  digging  up  his  past 
in  order  to  get  something  or  other  on  the  Gold 
Company.  Well,  he  was  mighty  worried  lest 
I  might  tell  Tarn  here,  and  then  he  seemed  to  be 
working  under  orders  from  Houston,  too.  But 
it  was  Susie  here  that  saved  me,  after  all — that 
is  Susie  and  your  whopping  big  yarn  about  the 
fifty  thousand.  Whew!" 

Hawkins  paused  in  his  story  to  take  a  long 
breath,  then,  placing  his  hand  to  his  forehead, 
he  continued:  "What  a  blessing  and  a  curse 
money  is,  Pete.  It  saved  my  life  this  time, 
though,  for  your  frozen  friend  in  there,"  point 
ing  a  thumb  over  his  shoulder  to  where  Slim 
Eliot  was  lying,  "made  a  bargain  with  Tam — 
bless  her  heart — to  spare  me  if  I  would  tell 
where  it  was — the  fifty  thousand,  that's  about 


250  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

all,  isn't  it,  Susie?  Anyhow,  that's  how  we  hap 
pened  to  be  hidden  away  up  here.  Yes,"  he 
continued  brokenly,  "that's  all — " 

"Of  course,  it  is  not,  Mr.  Hawkins;  go  on 
and  tell  the  rest.  You  know  it  isn't  all" — Tarn 
hesitated  for  a  moment,  then  continued,  as 
though  weighing  every  word,  "Mr.  Alden  has 
a  right  to  know." 

"Well,"  Hawkins  hesitated — "you  see  I 
know,  that  is,  we  knew  that  you  weren't  dead; 
but  might  be  anytime.  Then  I  knew  that  it  was 
only  a  matter  of  time  until  I  would  be  found 
out.  So,"  at  this  point  the  old  man,  visibly  af 
fected,  turned  his  head  to  one  side  as  though 
to  hide  his  emotion  as  he  forced  the  final  words 
out,  "I — I — made  a  bargain  for  you — and — 
and  for  all  of  us.  I — I — signed  a  quit-claim 
deed  to  the  Dead  Horse  Mine.  It  wasn't  much, 
after  all— I—" 

"You  what?"  Pete  shouted,  as  the  full  sig 
nificance  of  the  words  came  to  him.  "You 
what?  You  signed  a  deed?"  His  hands  sought 
the  shoulders  of  the  miner  as  he  lowered  his 
voice  almost  to  a  sob,  "Tell  me  you  didn't." 

Susie  and  Hawkins  gaped  in  wide-eyed 
astonishment  at  the  frenzy  that  overcame  Pete 
as  he  fairly  sobbed  out  the  last  words — and 
continued  muttering:  "What  have  you  done? 
My  God,  what  have  you  done?" 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  251 

"But  why — what  is  the  matter — what  have 
I  done?"  Hawkins  finally  gulped  out,  aware 
that  he  must  have  done  something  far  worse 
than  he  himself  imagined. 

Before  he  answered,  Pete  looked  intently 
from  Hawkins  to  Susie,  and  choked  back  the 
rush  of  words  that  came  welling  up  from  his 
sorely  troubled  heart.  Should  he  tell  them, 
he  asked  himself?  After  all,  wouldn't  it  be 
better  to  let  them  find  out  their  grave  mistake, 
and  let  them  take  the  blow  when  circumstances 
lessened  its  sting?  He  sank  back  dejectedly  on 
his  pillow,  and  said  no  more.  All  his  efforts 
in  vain!  All  of  his  fight,  fought  for  nothing! 
He  sighed  deeply  as  though  resigned  to  his  fate, 
and  suppressed  with  difficulty  the  bitter  tears 
that  flooded  his  eyes  and  bade  Hawkins 
continue. 

The  old  miner,  suspecting  that  Pete  was 
withholding  knowledge  that  held  for  him 
something  worse  than  the  pangs  of  regret  he 
had  already  experienced,  continued  in  a  broken 
voice : 

"She,"  pointing  to  Susie,  "found  out — 
that  you  were  in  their  hands,  that  you  were  at 
the  mine.  They  told  her  that  you  would  be 
killed,  buried  in  the  tunnel  unless  I  sold  the 
property  to  them,  and  that  I  would  never  come 
out  of  the  winter  alive.  And  so — I  did  it — 
didn't  we,  Susie?"  Poor  Hawkins  struggled 


252  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

hard  to  shoulder  all  of  the  blame  on  himself, 
but  in  spite  of  his  efforts,  his  actions  told  more 
eloquently  than  words,  that  he  had  but  yielded 
to  the  pleadings  of  the  girl — of  Tamarack  Sue 
who  sat  while  Hawkins  talked,  with  her  head 
bowed,  hot  tears  streaming  down  her  tender 
cheeks. 

Pete  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  not 
knowing  what  to  do,  or  say.  His  voice  choked 
as  his  eyes  met  hers. 

"Tarn — Susie — why  did  you  do  it?"  he 
finally  asked. 

Susie  hesitated  and  looked  for  guidance  to 
Hawkins.  The  mountaineer  slowly  shook  his 
head  in  silent  approval  of  the  question  she 
seemed  to  ask.  Slowly  she  left  her  seat,  and 
walked  to  the  room  beyond.  As  the  door  closed 
silently  behind  her,  Hawkins  leaned  close  to 
Pete's  head  and  whispered: 

"Don't  be  too  hard  on  her,  boy — she  had 
a  father  once,  just  as  you  have  now.  She  buried 
him  under  the  tamaracks,  and — "  he  quickly 
straightened  up,  as  Susie  returned  silently 
through  the  door,  carrying  a  letter  in  her  hands. 
She  walked  steadily  to  the  bedside  and  looked 
unfalteringly  into  Pete's  eyes  and  said: 

"Yes — I  alone  caused  Mr.  Hawkins  to  sign 
the  deed.  You  asked  me  why,  well,  here  is  the 
only  reason."  So  saying  she  handed  Pete  the 
letter. 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  253 

Long  before  he  had  finished  reading  the 
first  page,  his  eyes  dimmed,  and  he  could  read 
no  more.  "Read  it  to  me — please,"  he  pleaded, 
as  he  handed  it  to  the  girl.  "Read  it." 

It  was  a  message  from  Judge  Stivers.  A 
masterful  story  of  most  of  Pete's  dramatic  life; 
it  described  how  he  had  been  the  sole  joy  and 
comfort  of  a  father  bereaved  by  the  death  of 
the  boy's  mother,  death  caused  by  his  very  birth 
in  fact,  and  how  the  boy  had  been  spoiled  by 
riches  and  ill-directed  love,  until  he  had  lost 
direction,  it  seemed,  and  knew  not  how  to  live. 
The  letter  was  sad,  and  even  Peter,  who  knew 
the  story  so  well,  was  deeply  touched  by  it. 
Page  after  page,  written  as  only  a  master  law 
yer  pleading  for  a  life  could  write,  followed. 

Then  a  paragraph,  stating  that  the  letter 
was  a  "shot  in  the  dark,"  the  result  only  of  a 
half  hope  that  the  reader  might  find  a  way  in 
which  it  could  be  used  to  influence  those  who 
held  Pete  in  their  mercy,  closed  the  message. 

As  Tarn  finished  reading  she  handed  the 
sheets  to  Pete.  He  looked  long  and  searchingly 
at  the  signature,  and  as  he  did  so  the  brow  be 
neath  his  hair  contracted. 

For  a  moment  the  three  heads  bowed  in 
silence,  Pete  felt  the  old  tug  and  torment  of  his 
conscience  within.  This  man,  Hawkins,  almost 
a  stranger  to  him,  had  given  up  his  all — his 
mine — but  more,  much  more  than  that — his 


254  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

fight  against  the  Salmon  River  Gold  Company, 
just  to  save  him !  And  this  girl,  who  read  the 
letter  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  had  pleaded  for 
him! 

The  thought  came  crashing  home  to  him 
that  after  all,  he  alone  had  done  nothing  worthy 
— neither  of  the  old  love  of  his  father,  nor  of 
the  sacrifice  of  these  noble  people  beside  him. 
The  thought  of  his  gigantic  failure  fairly  sick 
ened  him,  and  he  groaned  aloud  in  agony. 

"And  so,"  Hawkins  concluded,  "yesterday 
I  signed  the  deed,  and  in  four  days  I  was  to 
join  you  in  Moapa." 

A  sudden  hope  started  Pete  from  his  utter 
dejection.  "Signed  yesterday?"  he  asked 
wonderingly. 

"Yes,"  answered  Hawkins,  "Tarn  here, 
has  been  carrying  on  secret  negotiations  with 
Buller.  He  told  her  you  were  still  at  the  Mine, 
and  just  before  the  blizzard,  he  sent  a  mes 
senger  to  the  peak  yonder,"  Pete,  too  interested 
in  the  words,  paid  no  attention  to  the  directions, 
but  waited  breathlessly  for  Hawkins  to  con 
tinue,  "and  she  gave  him  the  signed  papers. 
He  is  to  take  them  to  the  mine — where  the 
first  shipment  of  ore  goes  out  to-morrow."  As 
these  words  passed  the  lips  of  the  old  man,  it 
seemed  he  would  break  into  tears.  At  length 
he  continued:  "All  the  officials  are  to  be  there, 
he  says— Browning  and  all.  He  says  they  are 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  255 

there  for  a  bluff,  they  have  no  pay  ore,  they 
claim  to  be  just  working  the  place  for  me,  but 
I  am  not  so  sure." 

Pete's  hands  twitched  nervously  as  he  lis 
tened  impatiently  to  the  words. 

"But  now,"  Hawkins  continued,  bracing 
himself,  "for  heaven's  sake,  what  brings  you 
here?  Buller's  messenger  said  only  yesterday 
you  were  still  at  the  mine."  As  Hawkins  fin 
ished  the  question  he  looked  intently  at  Pete, 
who  seemed  not  to  hear  the  words  at  all. 

"For  God's  sake,  quick,"  he  shouted  as 
though  waking  from  a  dream,  "where  are  we 
now? — Where  are  we? — Where  is  the  mine?" 
He  trembled  with  excitement,  as  he  ignored 
Hawkins'  further  questioning,  and  grasped  him 
violently  by  the  arm  as  though  to  shake  the 
answer  from  him. 

"Just  eight  miles  down  the  mountains — 
there — "  Hawkins  pointed  off  down  great 
slopes  of  rolling  mountains.  "But  the  trail  is 
twenty  miles  long  that  could  bring  anyone  here, 
they  must  come  the  back  way.  You  must  be 
lost — where  have  you  been?" 

With  swollen  red  eyes  blazing  like  coals 
Pete  sprang  from  the  bed,  his  frost-bitten  limbs 
snapping  into  action  in  spite  of  the  terrible 
abuse  they  had  suffered.  Hawkins  made  a  rush 
to  restrain  him  and  his  frantic  effort,  but  Pete 
continued  rushing  about  the  room,  gathering 


256  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

boots,  fur  cap,  coat,  guns  and  whatever  else  he 
could  find  that  might  serve  him  on  the  trail. 

"Now,  food — a  blanket  or  two — and  be 
quick,  for  God's  sake,  be  quick!"  he  shouted. 
"They've  lied  to  you!  They  have  lied  to  you! 
Your  mine  is  worth  millions,  man — and  they 
are  stealing  it!  The  letter  is  a  forgery.  The 
dirty  yellow  dogs !  Tarn — Susie,  I  mean — send 
someone — the  man  out  there,  anyone  to  Moapa 
and  wire  Judge  Stivers  to  come.  Hurry,  Haw 
kins,  a  pack  and  food!  Hurry,  for  heaven's 
sake!" 

"But  I've  already  written  him  to  come," 
Tarn  started  to  say.  "Three  weeks  ago,  when 
I  got  the  letters,  I  wrote  him  all  about — " 

"But  it's  twenty  miles,  man — you  will  die 
on  the  trail,"  Hawkins  broke  in,  both  he  and 
Susie  raising  their  voices  at  once.  But  Pete 
heard  neither,  as  he  buckled  on  his  belt  and 
glared  out  upon  the  trail. 

"Quick,  Hawkins!"  he  ordered  savagely, 
"food  and  blankets,  or  I  go  as  I  am!" 

Hawkins  saw  the  desperate  earnestness  of 
the  frantic  Pete,  and  made  haste  to  get  what 
he  could  together  for  the  trip. 

Scarcely  thirty  minutes  from  the  reading 
of  the  letter,  Pete  found  himself  once  more 
ready  for  the  trail.  In  his  rush  he  paused  on 
the  door  sill  long  enough  only  to  shout  final 
instructions,  and  a  hurried  good-bye. 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  257 

"Stay  here  until  you  see  my  signal  lights. 
Hold  out  with  guns  against  all  hell  till  I  signal," 
he  cried  as  he  quickly  hurled  his  light  pack  to  his 
back,  grasped  a  pair  of  snow  shoes  under  his 
arm — things  he  had  never  used — and  then, 
with  a  fling  of  his  right  hand  high  in  the  air, 
made  off  directly  away  from  the  gentle  slopes 
that  meant  twenty  miles  of  slow,  easy  travel, 
and  plunged  over  the  frozen  snow  for  the  jag 
ged  steep  peril  that  separated  him  from  the 
Dead  Horse  Mine — only  eight  miles  away. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

'  I AHE  sun  was  already  dipping  into  a  bed  of 
•*•  amber  fleeced  clouds,  when  Pete  began  his 
mad  rush  down  the  mountain  side.  He  had 
hardly  passed  over  the  ridge  beyond  the  view 
of  anxious  eyes  from  the  trapper's  cabin  that 
had  served  so  well  as  a  refuge  for  Hawkins 
and  Tarn,  when  he  was  brought  to  a  sharp  reali 
zation  of  the  desperateness  of  his  undertaking. 
Almost  with  his  first  steps  his  feet  slipped  out 
from  under  him,  and  only  by  jabbing  the  point 
ed  ends  of  his  snow  shoes  into  the  frozen  crust 
over  which  he  slid,  was  he  able  to  check  the 
speed  of  his  descent.  Never  entirely  regaining 
a  standing  position,  he  half  ran,  half  slid,  and 
finally  rolled  to  the  first  narrow  strip  of  level 
ground,  far  down  the  steep  incline  from  his 
starting  point. 

The  force  of  his  landing  sent  him  deep  into 
the  drift,  and  only  by  surrendering  his  snow 
shoes,  was  he  finally  able  to  emerge,  and  start 
again. 

As  he  descended  lower  and  lower  into 
the  valley,  the  darkness  increased  in  intensity, 
and  not  even  the  shadows  of  twilight  came  to 
aid  him  in  adjusting  himself  to  the  intense 
blackness  below.  Time  after  time  he  butted 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  259 

full  into  projecting  rocks — sometimes  falling 
over  precipitous  places  and  plunging  through 
air,  not  knowing  if  he  would  fall  on  splinters 
of  rocks  far  below,  or  alight  again  on  soft  snow 
close  beneath  him. 

Hazardous  as  was  the  rapid  descent,  he  at 
least  felt  himself  moving  toward  his  goal.  It 
was  when  he  encountered  the  adverse  slopes  or 
bulges  of  small  ridges  that  rose  against  him, 
that  he  found  progress  bitterly  slow.  Time  and 
again  he  would  come  upon  these  obstructions, 
seem  to  reach  the  summit,  then  lose  his  grip 
and  roll  helplessly  to  the  bottom.  Or  if  his 
progress  up  such  slopes  was  steady  and  long 
continued,  he  would  be  seized  with  a  panic 
lest  he  had  reversed  his  course  in  the  darkness 
and  was  making  back  over  the  steep  incline  of 
the  mountain  which  he  had  descended.  Each 
time,  however,  he  finally  dipped  over  the  minia 
ture  summit,  and  started  once  more  down  the 
precipitous  side  of  the  main  mountain. 

For  an  hour  he  traveled  thus,  coming  al 
ways  closer  and  closer  to  the  bottom  of  the 
gulch  below. 

The  air  seemed  heavier  as  he  descended, 
and  when  at  length  he  brought  up  sharp 
against  a  protruding  boulder,  he  deliberately 
paused  for  the  first  time,  and  lay  motionless, 
as  though  suddenly  afraid  to  rush  on.  Some 
thing  like  the  feeling  he  had  experienced  when 


260  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

approaching  chasms  encountered  on  hikes  in  his 
native  mountains  of  California,  seized  him  now, 
and  even  through  the  inky  blackness  of  night, 
he  could  feel  the  presence  of  a  yawning  space 
before  him. 

Instinct,  or  the  guiding  hand  of  fate,  some 
thing  at  any  rate,  took  from  Pete  that  instant 
the  spirit  of  reckless  abandon  that  had  impell 
ed  him  to  undertake  the  mad  plunge,  and  caused 
him  to  arise  guardedly  to  his  feet,  and  secure 
himself  behind  the  spear  of  granite  against 
which  he  had  fallen.  Then  straining  his  eyes 
to  see  into  the  darkness,  he  cautiously  clam 
bered  to  the  side  of  his  protection,  and  tried  to 
follow  the  shadowy  outline  of  snow.  It  ended 
abruptly,  however,  and  he  could  not  tell  whither 
it  went.  As  he  stood  there  his  hands  played 
over  the  rough  surface  of  the  rock,  and  he  tore 
off  a  small  loose  fragment.  This  he  pitched  out 
before  him  and  listened  intently.  But  he  heard 
not  a  sound.  Perhaps  it  had  fallen  in  soft  snow, 
he  reasoned.  He  couldn't  have  heard  it,  after 
all!  He  tried  another — with  the  same  result. 

Impatient  at  the  baffling  something  that 
held  him  powerless  to  move,  he  again  called 
desperately  on  the  resourcefulness  that  had 
been  his  faithful  ally  in  the  past.  Even  as  he 
did  so,  he  thought  of  a  light,  if  he  could  only 
throw  a  light  out  there  into  the  mysterious 
blackness  before  him.  He  remembered  the 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  261 

candles  he  had  crammed  into  his  pocket  days  be 
fore,  just  preceding  his  entrance  into  the  tunnel 
of  the  Dead  Horse  Mine.  Hope,  always  so 
ready  to  join  forces  with  desire,  sent  his  hands 
rapidly  to  the  pockets  of  his  fur  coat.  With 
difficulty  he  unbuttoned  the  flaps,  and  ran  his 
fingers  over  the  collection  of  articles  that  re 
mained.  The  candles  were  there — but  hope 
lessly  broken  and  moulded  together  into  a  paste- 
like  mass  against  the  leather  of  his  coat  lining. 
Undismayed,  he  drew  the  mass  forth  and  placed 
it  on  the  shelf  in  the  rock  made  by  the  removal 
of  the  first  fragments  he  had  thrown  into  the 
darkness.  Next  he  unbuttoned  his  coat,  and 
did  as  he  had  seen  the  half-breed  do  a  week 
before,  cut  the  tails  from  his  woolen  shirt. 

Taking  fully  a  third  of  the  matted  candles, 
he  made  up  a  small  bundle  of  wax  and  wool, 
placing  nearly  a  dozen  leaded  cartridges  from 
his  belt  into  the  center  of  it.  A  moment  more 
and  he  had  it  tied  securely  by  means  of  a  portion 
of  lace  taken  from  his  boot.  Touching  a  match 
to  the  greasy  mass  he  held  it  long  in  his  gloved 
hand,  until  the  entire  ball  seemed  a  mass  of  dull 
red  flame.  Even  in  the  first  flare  of  the  light  he 
looked  with  horror  upon  the  brink  of  a  sheer 
cliff  before  him,  and  realized  that  only  mi 
raculous  fate  in  the  shape  of  projecting  granite 
had  prevented  his  mad  plunge  down,  he  knew 
not  where. 


262  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

An  instant  more  and  Pete  flung  the  flaming 
mass  far  out  before  him,  and  watched  it  de 
scend  down — down — until  it  looked  like  a 
meteor  in  the  distance.  Helplessly  he  leaned 
against  the  boulder,  and  watched  the  ball  of 
fire  pass  from  his  view. 

Suddenly  there  came  from  the  regions  below 
a  dull  boom,  and  he  knew  a  cartridge  in  the 
burning  ball  had  exploded,  as  crash  after  crash 
followed,  all  echoes  from  the  lone  explosion, 
making  their  noisy  way  out  of  the  gulch. 

During  his  many  quiet  days  at  the  Dead 
Horse  Mine,  Pete  had  studied  the  country 
about  with  an  interest  inspired  not  by  its  grand 
eur  alone,  but  essentially  because  of  a  premoni 
tion  that  it  would  be  his  battleground  in  times 
to  come.  As  he  listened  to  the  reverberations 
he  tried  to  fix  his  location  in  his  mind;  to  recall 
the  gulch,  and  determine  if  possible  its  location 
in  relation  to  the  mine. 

He  hesitated  long  between  staying  where  he 
was,  and  skirting  the  edge  of  the  slippery  cliff 
for  a  place  to  descend;  his  better  judgment  ad 
vised  the  former,  counseled  him  to  spread  his 
blankets  and  rest  until  daylight  showed  him  the 
way.  Then  came  the  thought  of  those  behind 
in  the  trapper's  cabin,  and  of  the  scheming  ras 
cals  who  had  snatched  victory  from  his  very 
hands  and  were  already,  perhaps,  dividing  the 
spoils  between  them.  His  thoughts  jumped  for 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  263 

a  moment  to  San  Francisco.  What  a  mess 
would  greet  Judge  Stivers  there!  If  the  Judge 
had  written  the  letter  to  Tam,  he  certainly  had 
not  signed  it !  The  cunningness  and  trickery  of 
the  thing,  if  the  letter  was  indeed  a  forgery, 
but  emphasized  the  efficiency  of  Houston  and 
his  henchmen  on  the  coast,  he  reasoned,  and 
new  anger  welled  within  him,  as  the  possibili 
ties  of  defeat  at  the  hands  of  this  same  gang 
loomed.  "No,"  he  shouted  aloud,  "I  must 
keep  on!  Hours,  even  minutes  are  precious!" 
He  knew  he  could  not  wait  for  daylight,  and, 
the  very  thought  of  looking  from  his  perch 
high  on  the  mountain  side,  looking  in  all  prob 
ability  down  upon  his  enemies  traveling  through 
the  gulch  below,  with  a  deed  to  the  mine,  as 
well  as  gold  from  its  rich  veins,  sickened  him, 
and  he  knew  it  was  now — this  night — or  never. 
He  cut  more  from  his  woolen  shirt,  winding 
the  cloth  about  the  remainder  of  the  plastic 
candle  wax,  until  he  had  a  taper-like  torch 
nearly  a  foot  in  length.  Lighting  this,  he 
grasped  it  near  the  flame,  to  prevent  its  burning 
faster  than  needed,  and  started  hacking  holes 
in  the  frozen  snow  along  the  edge  of  the  cliff. 
Progress  was  slow  and  tedious,  as  he  carefully 
dug  each  hole,  putting  his  foot  testingly  into  it 
to  make  certain  that  a  foundation  had  been 
reached  that  would  bear  his  weight,  before  he 
trusted  himself  to  proceed. 


264  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

The  waxed  wool  burned  all  too  rapidly,  and 
its  fast  disappearing  light  hastened  Pete's  ac 
tivity  beyond  the  point  of  safety.  Yet  he  rushed 
on,  never  faltering,  and  always  muttering  to 
himself  meaningless  words  as  though  to  keep 
the  goddess  of  fate  between  him  and  the  cliff. 
Once,  the  absurdity  of  the  muttering  occurred 
to  him;  but  he  had  started  it  with  the  first  hole, 
and  dared  not  discontinue  it  until  the  end.  As 
he  worked  his  way  from  hole  to  hole  he  felt 
the  compelling  pull  of  the  abyss  by  his  side, 
much,  he  recalled,  as  he  had  felt  the  silent  tug 
and  pull  of  the  tide  when  swimming  at  night 
in  the  bay  at  home.  As  he  swam  against  the 
tide  then,  so  he  shaped  his  tracks  against  the 
pull  now,  and  felt,  with  increasing  hope,  its 
diminishing  force  as  he  made  his  way.  At 
length  it  seemed  to  leave  him  altogether,  and 
he  made  more  boldly  for  the  cliff.  With  his 
last  two  inches  of  burning  wool  and  candle 
grease,  he  crawled  to  the  very  edge,  and  looked 
for  the  cause  of  the  relaxing  of  the  pull  he  had 
felt  so  long.  His  muttering  increased  almost  to 
a  jabber  of  delight  at  what  he  saw:  a  gradual 
incline,  a  place  where  the  cliff  jutted  off  at  right 
angles  to  itself,  it  seemed,  lay  there  before  him. 
He  could  scarcely  see  more  than  a  dozen  feet, 
yet  he  took  to  the  slight  hope  that  even  this 
twelve  feet  might  lead  him  to  still  another 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  265 

gradual  slope,  and  started  once  more  to  de 
scend. 

It  was  again  all  black  and  uncertain  about 
him,  as  the  last  of  his  smoky  red  light  faded 
away.  With  its  fading,  it  became  necessary  for 
him  to  waste  precious  minutes  there  on  the 
first  few  feet  of  the  descent,  in  order  to  allow 
his  eyes  once  more  to  become  accustomed  to  the 
blackness  about  him.  Foot  by  foot  he  crawled, 
letting  himself  slip  from  one  niche  to  another, 
trusting  to  instinct  and  chance  to  guide  his 
course  aright. 

But  his  course  was  no  longer  interrupted, 
and  even  before  the  darkness  gave  signs  of 
breaking,  he  found  himself  once  more  on  ground 
he  knew,  and  with  savage  triumph  radiating 
from  his  very  steps,  he  hurried  along  the  gulch, 
toward  the  Dead  Horse  Mine,  whose  lights 
already  seemed  to  be  high  up  at  the  very  head 
of  the  gulch. 

So  close  were  the  lights,  he  could  even  hear 
the  sound  of  workmen  about  them,  shouting 
orders  and  calling  to  others  as  though  they 
were  in  groups  apparently  at  some  distance 
from  each  other.  Yet  he  knew  the  mine  must 
be  at  least  five  miles  away.  As  he  examined 
the  lights  closely  he  observed  that  what  seemed 
to  be  one  cluster  at  first,  now  appeared  sep 
arated  into  little  groups,  ranged  one  behind  the 
other.  Their  general  appearance  puzzled  him, 


266  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

and  he  tried  to  think  what  they  could  mean. 
Even  as  he  watched  them,  they  seemed  to  move, 
to  come  toward  him.  The  shouting  of  men, 
too,  came  down  upon  him  with  the  lights. 
Twice  he  even  heard  sharp  cracks,  like  the 
snapping  of  whips  above  the  sound  of  voices. 
Seeking  a  vantage  point  by  the  side  of  the  trail, 
which  in  spite  of  the  recent  storm,  showed 
plainly  its  course  through  the  blanket  of  snow, 
he  waited. 

He  had  not  long  to  remain  there,  for  soon 
emerging  suddenly  before  him,  the  lights  as 
sumed  definite  proportions,  and  he  made  out 
five  heavily  laden  sleds,  hitched  together  one 
behind  the  other.  Two  horses,  also  in  single 
file,  pulled  them.  As  they  came  nearer,  Pete 
made  out  the  men;  two  of  them  carrying  rifles 
slung  loosely  in  the  hollow  of  their  arms,  trot 
ting  along  in  front  of  the  horses,  while  beside 
each  sled  other  men  hurried  along.  Behind 
them  all  came  a  group — probably  four  in  all, 
with  side  arms  dangling  from  their  belts. 

The  grim  significance  of  the  thing  came 
to  Pete  at  once.  It  was  the  expected  shipment 
of  high  grade  ore,  ore  rich  in  all  probability 
beyond  anything  that  had  ever  come  from  the 
gulch!  The  moment  of  triumph  that  should 
belong  to  Hawkins  was  here  passed  in  the  dead 
of  night  by  vicious  thieves,  who,  under  the  cover 
of  darkness,  hurried  their  ill-gotten  wealth  out 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  267 

of  the  mountains!  Pete  clenched  his  fist,  and 
cursed  bitterly  in  the  darkness. 

The  loud  voice  of  Demons  sounded  above 
all  the  others  as  he  urged  men  and  horses  on, 
and  Pete  found  it  necessary  to  hurry  back  to 
the  trail  and  make  a  hasty  retreat  in  order  that 
he  could  collect  his  thoughts  and  make  a  plan  of 
action  before  the  ore  train  left  the  defiles  of  the 
gorge. 

He  ran  fast,  outdistancing  the  horses  and 
men  by  fully  a  hundred  yards,  before  he  slack 
ened  his  pace  to  a  brisk  walk.  Suddenly  a  voice 
even  louder  and  more  commanding  than  that 
of  Demons  sounded  from  the  rear. 

"Halt — whoa,  Demons — come  here — some 
one  ahead!"  it  shouted. 

Pete  heard  the  drivers  order  their  animals 
to  a  halt,  and  saw  the  lights  cluster  above  his 
tracks  in  the  snow. 

"One  coming  in,  and  one  going  out,  same 
tracks.  He's  seen  us."  It  was  Demons  shout 
ing  now. 

Then  two  lights  left  the  others,  and  came 
at  a  rapid  pace  toward  the  spot  where  Pete 
stood — waiting. 

Putting  all  the  energy  he  could  into  the 
effort,  he  rushed  wildly  about — making  tracks 
here,  there  and  everywhere,  running  trails  first 
to  one  side  and  then  to  the  other,  hoping  thus 


268  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

to  give  his  trackers  the  impression  that  he  was 
not  alone. 

Then,  whipping  his  guns  from  his  belt,  he 
fired  twelve  times  up  the  trail,  well  over  the 
heads  of  his  pursuers,  racing  in  circles  as  he  did 
so,  causing  the  jagged  flare  from  his  guns  to 
pierce  the  darkness  from  as  many  points  as 
possible.  Almost  instantly  an  answering  volley 
came  crashing  down  the  gulch  from  the  sleighs. 
Pete  instantly  sprang  to  one  side  of  the  trail, 
crouching  low  from  the  screaming  lead  above 
him.  But  even  as  he  did  so,  he  observed  the 
light  that  led  the  rest  flicker  and  fall  to  the 
snow,  and  he  thought  he  heard  a  groan,  as 
though  from  a  man  badly  hurt. 

The  men  continued  firing  in  the  darkness, 
first  one  and  then  the  other  shouting  commands 
and  challenging  each  other  in  utter  confusion. 
Hearing  the  turmoil  Pete  made  the  most  of  his 
lone  chance,  and  raced  just  off  the  trail  di 
rectly  toward  the  sleds,  where  the  horses 
reared  and  plunged  in  the  semi-darkness. 
Drawing  near,  he  observed  two  men  tugging  at 
the  bits,  and  cursing  the  horses  between  shouts 
to  the  men  ahead. 

Gasping  for  breath  Pete  joined  the  strug 
gling  men  and  shouted,  "Hurry,  back  to  the 


mine!' 


In  the  wild  confusion  the  ruse  worked,  and 
the   men   came   near   upsetting   their   precious 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  269 

loads,  as  they  wheeled  the  prancing,  snorting 
horses  about.  Pete,  crowding  close  as  though 
to  help,  watched  for  his  chance,  and  brought 
down  the  butt  of  his  gun  with  a  sickening  thud 
on  the  head  of  the  nearest  teamster.  Quickly 
taking  the  gun  from  his  limp  victim's  belt,  he 
crouched  between  the  horses  and  sprang  upon 
the  remaining  man.  Taken  completely  un 
awares,  the  struggle  lasted  but  a  moment,  and 
the  man  crumpled  beside  his  fallen  mate. 

Pete  was  none  too  quick;  already  the  men 
down  the  trail  had  ceased  their  firing,  and  once 
more  the  loud  voice  of  Demons  seemed  to  pre 
vail  upon  them. 

With  sweeping  lashes  of  the  teamster's 
whip,  Pete  started  the  horses  on  a  wild  run  back 
toward  the  Dead  Horse  Mine.  No  sooner 
were  they  under  way,  however,  than  Demons 
and  his  gang  discovered  the  stunned  teamsters 
and  started  in  angry  pursuit,  firing  from  rifles 
and  guns  at  the  fast-disappearing  sled.  The 
ore  had  been  strapped  on  well,  and  in  spite  of 
the  swerving,  rolling  course  of  the  sled,  the 
heavily  loaded  sacks  held  their  places  and  Pete 
soon  swept  beyond  the  danger  of  flying  bullets. 
He  knew  by  the  slope  of  the  trail  that  he  was 
several  miles  from  the  mine.  His  heart  beat  in 
wild  exultation  as  he  thought  of  the  precipitous 
gorge  along  which  the  trail  ahead  skirted,  and, 
as  soon  as  he  passed  beyond  danger  of  flying 


270  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

bullets,  he  calmed  the  runaway  horses  as  best  he 
could,  and  made  ready  for  it. 

Recovered  from  their  early  fright,  the 
horses  strained  evenly  at  their  harness  as  the 
first  incline  was  reached.  Time  and  again, 
Pete  found  it  necessary  to  ply  the  whip,  as  the 
horses  seemed  stalled  in  their  tracks;  but  they 
made  the  grade,  sticking  close  to  the  wall  as 
they  picked  their  way  gingerly  along. 

Once  above  the  yawning  space  along  which 
the  trail  skirted,  Pete  quickly  drew  his  knife, 
cut  the  binding  ropes  and  sent  bag  after  bag  of 
the  precious  ore  crashing  down  the  side  of  the 
cliff,  where  he  knew  it  would  be  safe  until  far 
into  the  next  summer. 

With  rapid  movements  he  stripped  all  the 
harness  except  the  bridles  from  the  panting 
horses.  Then,  giving  the  long  line  of  sleds 
a  final  shove  after  the  ore  sacks,  he  sprang  on 
the  back  of  one  of  the  animals,  and  leading  the 
other  behind,  he  galloped  on  toward  the  mine. 

He  knew  he  was  fully  an  hour  in  advance  of 
Demons  and  the  men  behind,  yet  he  knew  not 
what  to  expect  at  the  bunk  houses  above,  so  he 
increased  his  speed  to  the  utmost. 

Dawn  was  not  yet  breaking  when  the  lone 
light  on  the  gable  of  the  main  house  loomed  be 
fore  him.  Quietly  dismounting,  he  tied  his 
steaming  horses  to  convenient  bushes,  hiding 
them  from  the  trail  as  best  he  could.  For.  a 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  271 

moment  he  hesitated,  to  pat  the  faithful  heads 
of  the  horses.  Precious  as  time  was,  he  could 
not  continue  his  fight,  until  he  had  first  sneaked 
to  the  several  new  buildings  he  found  clustered 
about  the  entrance  of  the  tunnel,  where  for 
nearly  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  searched,  before 
finally  coming  onto  two  bits  of  old  canvas,  with 
which  he  covered  the  fast  chilling  bodies  of  the 
horses. 

First  he  listened  intently  for  sounds  of  his 
pursuers.  Observing  no  evidence  of  life  about, 
he  made  for  the  small  window  of  the  bunk 
house  he  remembered.  In  the  dim  light  that 
emanated  from  the  single  lantern  overhead,  he 
observed  that  many  new  bunks  had  been  added 
to  the  ones  he  remembered.  One  end  of  the 
room  too  had  been  partitioned  off,  and  he 
made  out  a  sign  on  a  door  in  the  center  of  it 
that  might  be  "Office"  or  "Private,"  he  could 
not  be  sure. 

Pete  remembered  the  words  of  Hawkins, 
words  that  Buller  had  first  spoken  to  Tarn: 

"The  officials  will  be  there  to  receive  the 
deed,"  he  had  said.  Why  at  the  mine? — he 
wondered.  The  more  he  considered  the  words, 
the  less  he  believed  them,  yet  he  hoped  against 
hope  that  Buller  had  this  time  spoken  the  truth, 
and  he  hurried  around  the  side  of  the  house  and 
made  for  the  far  end  of  the  building.  A  light 
there  streamed  out  of  a  window.  He  hurried 


272  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

on  to  investigate  it,  but  the  foundation  of  the 
building  rested  almost  on  the  edge  of  the  cliff, 
and  he  found  progress  to  a  spot  below  the  win 
dow  not  only  slow,  but  hazardous  in  the  ex 
treme.  Once  there,  he  considered  long  before 
determining  what  his  next  step  would  be.  He 
knew  he  dared  not  show  his  face  to  the  light, 
for  once  his  presence  became  known,  his  plan 
would  be  spoiled.  He  heard  voices  within,  but 
could  not  make  out  the  meaning  of  the  low 
spoken  words.  With  his  naked  finger  he  traced 
the  cracks  between  the  boards  that  formed  the 
end  of  the  building.  Selecting  the  widest  one, 
he  drew  his  heavy  clasp  knife,  and  worked  the 
point  of  the  blade  slowly  between  the  boards. 
Gradually  he  sliced  splinter  after  splinter,  until 
the  pent  up  light  from  within  came  out  in  a 
stream  fully  a  quarter  of  an  inch  wide.  Then, 
lying  prone  on  the  snow,  he  placed  his  ear  to  the 
opening  and  listened.  Browning  was  there ! 
And  at  the  sound  of  his  voice,  Pete  felt  a  rush 
of  blood  to  his  head  that  threatened  to  drown 
out  his  hearing;  the  distinct  note  of  triumph  in 
the  voice  angered  him  to  the  point  of  despera 
tion. 

"And  Sharpe's  there  to  receive  it,"  Brown 
ing  was  saying. 

uTell  me  again,  Ern,  how  much  do  you 
think  that  stuff  is  worth?" 

"Don't  know,"  Houston  grunted. 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  273 

"Oh,  come,  Ern,  can't  you  be  cheerful  for 
a  minute?"  Browning  urged.  "You're  the 
damnedest  man  I  ever  knew,  Ern;  here  you've 
won;  got  the  deed;  we've  got  the  gold,  six 
sled  loads  of  it,  and  I'm  hanged  if  you've  said 
fifty  words  all  night." 

If  Pete  could  have  seen  the  pleased  gleam  in 
Silent  Ern's  eyes  as  he  gloated  over  his  victory, 
he  would  have  understood  that  Browning  was 
merely  trying  again  to  force  the  lawyer  into 
a  new  way  of  expressing  himself,  and  that  his 
words  were  not  a  true  measure  of  the  lawyer's 
state  of  mind. 

At  Browning's  words,  Houston  did  seem  to 
brighten  up,  however,  as  he  replied:  "Well, 
Demons  says  there's  millions  where  these  loads 
came  from.  Probably  quarter  of  a  million's 
worth  on  the  sleds." 

"Then,  I'm  right,  huh?  You  ought  to  be 
jumping  up  and  down  thanking  your  lucky  stars 


or—" 


"Or  our  San  Francisco  lawyer — "  Ern 
added  significantly. 

"Say,"  Browning's  voice  fairly  bubbled  with 
praise,  "Sam  is  a  wonder!  Ern,  you  and  Sam 
together  are  the  fastest  workers  in  the  United 
States.  No — by  Jove — in  the  world!  Let's 
have  a  drink."  Pete  heard  the  clinking  of 
glasses,  then  Browning,  continuing — between 
smacks  of  his  pudgy  lips. 


274  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

"But,  say,  who's  the  little  old  goat  that's 
hopping  around  town  lately  like  a  flock  of 
fleas?" 

"Don't  know.  He's  been  too  busy  at  the 
Land  Office  to  suit  me,"  Ern  replied. 

"How  long's  he  been  here?"  Browning 
asked,  and  it  seemed  to  Pete  that  his  voice 
had  a  color  of  seriousness  in  it. 

"Nearly  two  weeks  now." 

"Oh,  well — cheer  up,  Ern,  have  another 
drink,"  glasses  clinked  again,  and  Browning 
continued. 

"This  thing  was  sure  to  break  some  time. 
I  wouldn't  be  surprised  if  he's  some  stockholder 
of  Sharpe's  trying  to  make  trouble.  Whew, 
this  old  Gopher's  mine  certainly  came  in  at  the 
right  time,  didn't  it?" 

"Ye — es,"  Ern  seemed  to  hesitate  as  he 
answered.  "Ye — es,  it  certainly  has  relieved 
matters." 

It  seemed  from  the  way  he  spoke  that  he 
had  already  lost  the  enthusiasm  Browning  had 
tried  so  hard  to  instil. 

"Oh,  for  heaven's  sake,  Ern,  come  out  and 
say  yes,  damnit — yes,  like  that!"  Browning 
fairly  shouted  the  words.  "Ern,  some  day  I'm 
going  to  get  a  gun  and  make  you  admit  some 
thing,  anything,  without  your  infernal  qualify 
ing  all  the  time." 

Browning,  in  spite  of  his  effort  to  be  cock- 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  275 

sure  of  success,  betrayed  the  uncertainty  that 
was  working  within  himself,  pulling  his  nerves 
to  shreds,  it  seemed. 

"Well,  this  mine  isn't  ours  yet.  Not  until 
we  record  this  deed,"  Pete  heard  Ern  tap  a 
paper  as  he  spoke. 

uBut  we've  got  it,  haven't  we?  Great 
heavens,  two  days  ago  we  were  all  up  in  the  air, 
now  we've  got  our  money  in  sight  again,  and 
you  have  the  deed,  what  more  do  you  want?" 

"Just  to  record  it — that's  all,  we've  got 
absolutely  no  contract  covering  the  property. 
All  we  have  is  the  deed,  if  anything  happens 
— before  we  record — " 

At  this  point  Houston's  words  were 
drowned  by  a  loud  smashing  kick,  following 
which  Pete  heard  the  door  leading  to  the  office 
fly  open — as  some  one  entered  noisily. 

"Robbed!"  Demon's  voice  thundered — 
"two  men  killed — horses,  ore,  sleds,  everything 
gone — where  are  they?" 

Perhaps  a  look  of  consternation  and  com 
plete  bewilderment  that  came  over  Browning 
and  Houston  checked  a  further  wild  outburst. 
At  any  rate,  after  his  first  loud  words,  abso 
lute  silence  ensued,  so  far  as  Pete  could  deter 
mine. 

Someone  had  closed  the  door,  and  now 
sounds  of  men  rushing  about  in  the  darkness 
of  the  sleeping  quarters  made  it  impossible  to 


276  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

make  out  further  conversation.  As  he  listened 
intently  to  the  general  confusion,  he  knew  that 
the  time  had  arrived  for  his  final  stroke,  and  he 
boldly  made  his  way  toward  the  door  of  the 
building. 

As  he  entered  the  building,  several  men,  ap 
parently  stragglers  from  the  lost  ore  train 
rushed  past  him  and  joined  the  excited  group 
within.  No  one  observed  his  presence,  as  he 
cautiously  picked  his  way  thru  the  shadows  to 
ward  the  office  in  the  rear.  On  coming  up  to  it, 
he  hesitated  a  moment  before  the  knob  of  the 
door,  uncertain  whether  he  should  first  try  it 
gently,  and  risk  the  chance  of  putting  the  three 
men  inside  on  their  guard,  or  whether  he  should 
smash  his  full  weight  against  it,  finish  the  work 
inside,  and  take  his  chance  with  the  men  in  the 
long  room;  rough  and  hardy  men  who  would 
certainly  attack,  once  they  heard  his  bold  crash. 

He  decided  on  the  former  plan,  and  ripping 
his  gun  from  its  holster,  he  opened  the  door  si 
lently,  and  stepped  into  the  presence  of  Brown 
ing,  Houston  and  Demons. 

"Shut  up  1"  he  growled,  leveling  his  gun 
full  at  the  heads  of  the  bewildered  trio. 

"One  word  and  I  drill  the  three  of  you — 
up  with  your  lily-whites,  J.  D. — your  name's 
written  on  every  bullet  in  this  gun,  and  I'm  mak 
ing  deliveries  damn  sudden!" 

Browning's   teeth   chattered   loudly   as   he 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  277 

looked  over  the  gun  into  the  wild  eyed,  bushy 
haired  Pete,  who  loomed  like  a  young  giant 
before  them.  The  harsh  commands  sizzled 
through  Pete's  teeth  like  escaping  steam,  and 
his  body  shook  as  though  the  pressure  of  pent- 
up  rage  was  about  to  burst  into  action. 

"Down — Demons — down  on  your  belly; 
quick !  Hands  over  your  back — look  into  the 
floor!  There,  that  way" — Pete  could  restrain 
himself  no  longer,  and  as  he  observed  Demons' 
hand  reach  for  a  gun,  he  emphasized  his  com 
mands  by  lifting  a  heavy  boot  to  the  back  of 
Demons'  head,  bringing  it  down  in  a  way  that 
smashed  the  villainous  face  of  the  engineer  into 
the  coarse  spruce  planks.  The  action  was  a 
rash  one,  for  Demons  cried  loudly  in  pain. 
Someone  in  the  long  room  without,  heard  the 
cry,  and  knocked  on  the  door.  Pete  turned  to 
Browning. 

"Order  them  to  stay  out — quick,  or  I 
shoot!"  as  he  spoke,  he  pressed  the  trigger  of 
his  gun  until  the  hammer  moved  backwards 
visibly. 

UD — d — don't  come  i  n — st — st — s  t  ay 
out !"  Browning  fairly  shouted  the  last 
words,  and  Pete  heard  the  men  at  the  door  walk 
noisily  away. 

"Now — Mr.  Best  Lawyer  in  the  World, 
hand  over  that  deed" — Pete  commanded 
steadily  of  Houston. 


278  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

Aside  from  a  deathlike  pallor  that  came 
over  his  face,  and  a  murderous  look  in  his 
eyes,  Houston  showed  no  sign  of  emotion  as 
he  handed  over  the  precious  papers — marked 
in  big  black  type,  "QUIT  CLAIM  DEED." 

Pete  took  it  savagely  from  his  hand  and 
held  it  over  the  flaming  lamp  until  it  burned  to 
a  black  char  in  his  fingers. 

"Now,  Mr.  Houston,  a  little  paper  and  a 
pencil — and  lay  it  on  the  table.  So!  Now 
both  of  you — down  with  Demons — quick,  and 
I  won't  make  a  blood-pie  out  of  your  face  like 
I  did  for  your  crooked  engineer  here !" 

Then,  dividing  his  attention  between  his 
prostrate  prisoners  and  the  paper  on  the  table, 
Pete  hastily  scrawled  a  note  to  Hawkins. 

"Come  to  Moapa  at  once — you  and  Susie," 
it  started.  "The  mine  is  once  more  yours — use 
the  pass  enclosed — don't  talk  to  anyone  and 
don't  sign  anything."  Pete  scrawled  his  name 
beneath  the  writing,  and  turned  again  on  his 
floored  victims. 

"Now  Browning,  get  up — rest  of  you  move 
your  heads  and  I'll  squash  'em  through  the 
floor!" 

Browning  rose  dizzily  to  his  feet.  "Now 
sit  here  and  write  what  I  tell  you."  Pete  dic 
tated  : 

"It  is  very  important  that  the  bearer,  Brud 
Hawkins,  sole  owner  of  the  Dead  Horse  Mine, 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  279 

and  Susie — "  here  Pete  hesitated — "Susie 
Tamarack — no  just  write  Susie — arrive  safely 
in  Moapa.  Do  all  you  can  to  aid  them.  Now 
sign  it,"  Pete  ordered,  as  Browning's  trembling 
hand  finished  with  the  note. 

But  even  as  he  wrote,  Browning  seemed  to 
regain  his  poise,  and  to  collect  his  scattered 
wits.  Observing  this,  Pete  leaned  toward  him 
menacingly  and  rubbed  the  barrel  of  his  gun 
along  the  promoter's  nose. 

"Do  I  have  to  kill  you?"  he  grunted.  In 
stantly  the  look  of  terror  came  back  into 
Browning's  eyes.  He  had  faced  desperate 
situations  before,  but  never  one  in  which  the 
principal  actor  was  a  raging  madman. 

"N — n — no — for  God's  sake — whoever 
you  are — take  it  away,"  he  pleaded. 

"Then  quit  thinking — and  shut  up!" 
snapped  Pete,  giving  the  gun  a  vicious  jab  that 
brought  blood  from  a  long  cut  it  inflicted  on 
Browning's  nose. 

"Now  you  two  birds  get  up,"  he  ordered, 
and  at  the  command,  Demons  and  Houston 
scrambled  to  their  feet.  Demons  seemed  to 
want  to  talk — but  one  glance  at  the  blood- 
smeared  face  of  Browning  changed  his  mind. 

"Now — all  of  you  sit  down  and  look 
natural,"  Pete  continued.  "Browning — when 
I  open  the  door,  you  holler  out  just  what  I  say 


280  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

— and  nothing  else.  Wait  a  minute  first — name 
a  man  who  knows  the  mountains." 

"I — I — don't  know  any,"  Browning  stam 
mered. 

Pete  turned  on  Demons.  "You  do — name 
a  man  out  there  who  can  locate  the  trapper's 
cabin  where  Hawkins  is  staying." 

"I  don't  know  the  men — and  Hawkins  is 
dead." 

"You're  lying,"  Pete  thundered,  and 
jabbed  his  gun  close  to  the  puffed  lips  of  the 
engineer.  "Now  name  a  man — tell  the  truth 
or  you've  lied  for  the  last  time,  you  cowardly 
hound!" 

"Pierre — Pierre  Eliot — he  knows  the 
mountains,  and  he's  back." 

"Ah — that's  better — much  better." 

Pete  opened  the  door — standing  inside  its 
shelter,  allowing  only  space  enough  at  the  open 
ing  to  permit  Browning's  voice  to  carry  out. 

"Call  Pierre — "  he  whispered  harshly  to 
Browning. 

A  minute  more  and  Pierre  entered  the 
room.  Pete  closed  the  door  and  as  he  did  so, 
the  'breed  got  a  full  view  of  his  shaggy  face. 
For  a  moment  he  quavered  and  looked  uncer 
tainly  from  one  solemn  face  to  the  other  about 
the  room. 

"Pierre,"  Pete  began,  "your  brother  is  near 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  281 

death  from  the  blizzard.  He  is  at  the  cabin 
with  Hawkins." 

"Jacques — eet  ees  heem  you  mean?" 

Pete  nodded  his  head.  Pierre  was  visibly 
affected  by  the  news,  and  as  he  spoke  he  crossed 
himself  and  rolled  his  eyes  toward  the  ceiling. 

"But  he  is  not  dead" — Pete  continued,  "I 
saved  him." 

"Mercie — mercie  on  you,  Meester  Alden," 
the  excitable  breed  broke  in,  before  Pete  could 
continue. 

"But  wait — I  am  not  finished — do  you  know 
the  cabin?" 

"Ah,  the  cabain — he  ess  one  Bannerie — 
my  frien*  it  ees  good." 

"Then  you  must  go  to  that  cabin — Pierre — 
it  is  Mr.  Browning's  order.  Listen  to  this" — 
he  read  both  the  note  he  had  written  to  Haw 
kins  as  well  as  the  pass  Browning  had  signed. 

Browning,  prompted  by  an  ominous  jab 
from  Pete's  concealed  gun,  nodded  his  head  in 
violent  approval  of  Pete's  orders,  and  Pierre 
left  in  haste  to  carry  the  message. 

"Now,  down  on  your  faces  again!"  Pete 
snapped,  turning  on  the  silent  three. 

For  the  first  time,  Pete  observed  that  it  was 
already  daylight,  and  by  the  murky  color  of 
the  bit  of  sky  he  could  see  through  the  square 
window  pane,  he  knew  that  a  storm  was  gather 
ing. 


282  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

Uttering  a  final  threat  to  the  prostrate  men, 
he  searched  the  office  desk  and  table  for  papers, 
and  the  entire  room  for  guns.  Tucking  what 
he  found  in  his  spacious  pockets,  he  jerked  open 
the  door,  and  brandished  his  guns  wildly. 
Three  times  he  blazed  away  close  over  the 
heads  of  the  startled  miners. 

"Line  up,  along  the  wall — quick — hands 
high!"  he  shouted,  firing  again,  this  time  into 
the  boards  near  the  feet  of  the  group  nearest 
him. 

Following  the  tense  excitement  of  the  early 
morning  ore-train  stampede,  an  episode  which 
had  already  reached  the  proportions  of  an 
Indian  massacre,  in  exaggerated  accounts  that 
circulated  among  the  men,  the  miners,  unarmed 
in  the  main,  were  only  too  willing  to  obey  the 
shot-punctuated  commands  of  the  wild  looking 
figure  that  loomed  so  suddenly  before  them. 

"There's  men  layin'  for  you  all  along  the 
road.  If  you're  wise  you're  staying  right  here 
— all  day" — Pete  thundered,  as  he  edged  to 
ward  the  door — "and  don't  forget  the  tunnel's 
full  of  dynamite — if  you're  more  than  anxious 
to  die — go  in  there."  With  these  final  words 
he  emptied  one  of  his  guns — shooting  jagged 
holes  into  the  floor  and  through  the  upper  part 
of  the  office  door  in  the  rear,  before  he  finally 
backed  out  of  the  room,  and  dashed  for  the 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  283 

thicket  of  brush  behind  which  the  blanketed 
horses  stood. 

A  moment  more  and  he  was  galloping  down 
the  trail,  snow  flying  from  the  horses'  hoofs 
and  his  fur  coat  waving  out  behind  him  as  he 
raced.  Thus  he  rode  for  nearly  two  hundred 
yards  along  the  trail  before  the  first  crack  of 
rifles  sounded  from  the  rear.  But  for  the 
abrupt  turn  in  the  trail  around  which  he 
whirled,  he  would  surely  have  fallen  before  the 
deadly  hail  of  steel-jacketed  lead  that  whistled 
above  him. 

Once  out  of  danger  he  slowed  the  horse 
he  rode,  and  the  one  behind,  to  a  trot  and  pre 
pared  for  a  long  tedious  ride  to  the  pass  below. 

Snow  was  falling  as  he  rounded  the  last 
slippery  turn  in  the  trail  and  looked  for  the 
first  time  since  his  poker  game  of  months  be 
fore,  upon  the  cluster  of  cabins  that  housed 
Jenkins  and  his  crew  at  Salmon  Tooth  Pass. 

Fifty  yards  from  the  buildings  he  halted. 
There  was  no  evidence  of  life  in  the  cabins;  yet 
he  felt  that  he  was  under  observation.  He  saw 
fresh  tracks  leading  to  the  back  door,  tracks 
still  visible  in  spite  of  the  heavy  fall  of  snow. 

Convinced  that  his  only  hope  of  getting 
through  the  narrow  pass  lay  in  bold  and  prompt 
action,  he  urged  his  horses  to  a  trot  and  pulled 
up  a  few  yards  from  the  door. 


284  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

Eighteen  miles  of  bare-back  riding  had  ren 
dered  his  badly  abused  muscles  stiff  and  un 
wieldy,  and  as  he  hoisted  his  leg  with  great 
difficulty  over  the  back  of  his  horse,  he  slipped 
and  fell  heavily  to  the  snow.  Even  as  he 
sprawled  about,  and  before  he  could  regain  his 
feet,  the  door  of  the  cabin  flew  open  and  three 
armed  men  rushed  out. 

The  leader  was  Jenkins,  who  for  a  moment 
stood  over  the  prostrate  form  of  Pete  scowling 
uncertainly  as  though  to  fix  the  identity  of  the 
man,  in  his  mind. 

"Get  up — hands  first — and  keep  them 
high,"  he  ordered  as  Pete  struggled  to  rise. 

"All  right — Mr.  Jenkins — but  why  the 
guns?" 

At  the  sound  of  Pete's  voice,  the  expression 
on  Jenkins'  face  changed. 

"Ah — it  is  Alden.  I  thought  so."  Jen 
kins  turned  to  one  of  his  companions.  "Sheriff, 
here's  your  man — he's  come  to  meet  you. 
You'd  better  hustle  him  right  off.  There  may 
be  more  up  the  gulch.  Certainly  had  help  in 
that  hold  up  this  morning!" 

The  sheriff  advanced  on  Pete  with  a  gun 
in  one  hand  and  a  pair  of  heavy  iron  hand-cuffs 
in  the  other. 

"Peter  Alden — you're  under  arrest!  I'm 
the  sheriff  of  Moapa  County — stick  out  your 
hands!" 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  285 

Resistance  was  useless,  so  Pete  regained  his 
composure  as  quickly  as  possible,  and  held  out 
his  hands  for  the  irons.  Then  he  asked  what 
the  charges  against  him  were. 

The  sheriff  after  securing  his  prisoner,  read 
from  a  sheaf  of  papers : 

"Passing  worthless  checks  on  the  Bank  of 
Moapa. 

"Dynamiting  the  Dead  Horse  Mine. 

"Stealing  clothing  and  valuable  papers. 

"Highway  robbery,  and — " 

"I  guess  that's  enough — let's  go,"  Pete  in 
terrupted,  leaning  his  weary  manacled  arms 
over  the  back  of  the  horse. 

A  moment  more  and  the  armed  men,  with 
Pete  in  the  center,  started  for  Moapa. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

TLTEAR  ye — Hear  ye — Hear  ye — The  Su- 
•*•  •*•  perior  Court  of  Moapa  County,  State  of 
Montana  is  called  to  order!" 

The  melancholy  drone  of  the  bailiff  failed 
to  check  the  buzz  of  conversation. 

"This  is  what  I  call  bringing  'em  to  justice 
quick." 

"Understand  Ern  Houston's  been  sworn 
in  to  prosecute  this  case." 

"They  say  J.  D.'s  got  it  in  for  the  prisoners, 
and  he  always  wins." 

Bang!  Bang!  Bang!  The  bailiff's  gavel 
drowned  the  loudly  whispered  words,  and  pro 
duced  a  hush  of  silence  over  the  court  room. 

The  Judge  calmly  finished  a  glass  of  water 
and  announced :  "The  case  of  People  vs.  Peter 
Alden,  Jr.,  Brud  Hawkins,  Susie  Morgan, 
et  al." 

Pete,  a  picture  of  utter  dejection,  shuffled 
wearily  in  his  chair  in  the  prisoner's  box.  Haw 
kins  and  Tarn,  who  sat  beside  him,  shared  his 
wretchedness. 

The  Judge  spoke. 

"Mr.  Houston,  I  understand  that  you  are 
representing  the  District  Attorney's  office  in 
the  prosecution  of  this  case." 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  287 

"I  am,  your  Honor,"  Houston,  efficient  and 
alert  as  ever,  seemed  bubbling  over  with  confi 
dence,  as  he  stood  for  a  moment  and  replied  to 
the  Judge.  Then  he  sat  down  and  continued 
whispering  words  to  Browning  and  Sharpe, 
who  sat  with  him  at  the  counsel's  table,  lean 
ing  back  comfortably  in  their  well-padded 
chairs. 

The  Court  continued. 

"The  defendants  in  this  case,  having 
pleaded  not  guilty  to  the  charges  brought 
against  them,  have  further  stated  that  they  are 
unable  to  provide  counsel  for  themselves.  The 
state  has,  therefore,  appointed  Jud  Weeks  to 
defend  them.  Is  Mr.  Weeks  present?" 

Browning  winked  covertly  at  Houston, 
leaned  toward  him  and  whispered,  "Where  is 
he,  Ern?" 

"He's  had  a  wild  night,  but  he'll  be  here 
in  a  minute,"  Houston  answered. 

The  Judge  raised  his  voice  and  asked  again : 
"Is  Mr.  Weeks  present?" 

Sharpe  nudged  Houston,  who  quickly  arose 
and  addressed  the  Court: 

"Your  Honor,  I  understand  that  the  attor 
ney  for  the  defense  has  been  delayed.  I  have 
every  reason  to  believe,  however,  that  he  will 
be  here  very  shortly." 

"Mr.  Houston,"  the  Court  replied,  "it  is 
not  the  duty  of  the  prosecuting  attorney's  office 


288  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

to  account  for  the  attorney  of  the  defense. 
This  is  the  first  case  over  which  this  court  has 
presided.  Mr.  Weeks  has  been  appointed  to 
defend  the  accused,  but  if  he  is  not  in  court, 
this  case  will  be  set  ahead  on  the  calendar. 
The  charges  brought  against  the  accused  are 
extremely  grave  ones,  and  every  consideration 
must  be  shown  them  in  procuring  a  proper  de 
fense." 

Houston  sat  down  and  whispered  again  to 
Browning.  "Of  all  the  Judges  in  Montana, 
the  Governor  certainly  appointed  the  wrong 
one  for  us;  this  bird  would  convict  his  own 
mother  if  she  was  guilty." 

The  Judge  spoke  to  the  prisoners. 

"Peter  Alden,  can  you  or  those  accused  with 
you,  advise  the  Court  if  Mr.  Weeks  intends  to 
be  present?" 

Hawkins,  strong  and  vigorous,  but  trem 
bling  with  emotion,  answered  before  Pete  could 
reply. 

"Your  Honor,  Mr.  Weeks  has  not  seen  us 
more  than  thirty  minutes  during  all  the  while 
we've  been  in  jail.  No  one  has  been  allowed 
to  see  us.  I  don't  believe  .  .  .  ." 

He  was  suddenly  interrupted  by  Pete,  who 
tugged  violently  at  his  coat,  waving  his  free 
hand  frantically  as  he  did  so  in  the  direction  of 
a  group  of  men  who  entered  the  court  room  in 
the  rear. 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  289 

Instantly  everyone  in  the  room  turned  to 
see  the  cause  of  his  sudden  frantic  elation. 

The  bailiff  banged  his  gavel  and  shouted, 
"Order  in  the  court  room." 

Browning  paled  perceptibly  as  he  leaned 
over  toward  Sharpe  and  Houston.  "It's  that 
damn  goat,"  he  whispered,  "what's  he  doing 
here?  Do  you  know  the  men  with  him?" 

"Uncle  John,  Judge  Stivers!"  Pete  called 
aloud,  his  deep  voice  filling  the  court  room. 

Again  the  bailiff's  gavel  banged  for  silence. 

Judge  Stivers,  erect,  proud  and  defiant, 
looked  neither  to  the  right  nor  left,  as  he  came 
with  quick,  springy  steps  through  the  rail  of 
the  attorney's  inclosure  and  directly  up  to  the 
Judge.  His  long-trained  judicial  voice  caused 
the  entire  court  room  to  hush  breathlessly  as 
he  spoke. 

"May  it  please  the  Court,  I  have  here  cer 
tain  credentials  to  present." 

So  saying  he  handed  over  a  bundle  of 
papers,  but  the  Court  had  already  recognized 
its  distinguished  visitor,  and  with  both  arms  ex 
tended,  grasped  the  hand  of  Judge  Stivers,  and 
shook  it  warmly. 

"The  Court  will  adjourn  for  fifteen  min 
utes,"  the  Judge  annouced  briefly,  and  hurried 
with  the  visitor  to  private  chambers. 

Again  the  gavel  sounded  and  court  re-con 
vened. 


290  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

The  enthusiasm  that  radiated  from  the 
prisoner's  box  spread  rapidly  over  the  entire 
room.  Houston,  Browning  and  Sharpe  alone 
seeming  suddenly  chilled.  They  twitched  ner 
vously  at  papers  and  whispered  excitedly  among 
themselves.  During  the  recess  Demons  and 
Jud  Weeks  had  entered  the  court  room,  and 
now  sat  in  conference  with  the  three. 

"It  appears,"  the  Court  announced,  "that 
the  State  of  Montana  has  for  some  time  past 
been  honored  by  the  presence  of  Judge  Jona 
than  Stivers,  who  for  twenty  years  has  enjoyed 
the  distinction  of  being  one  of  the  leading  jurists 
of  the  State  of  California.  Although  he  needs 
no  credentials  in  any  court  in  the  land,  he  has 
presented  today  all  of  the  papers,  signed  by  the 
Governor  of  this  State,  and  has  taken  other 
necessary  steps  to  admit  himself  to  practice  in 
this  court,  in  the  case  now  at  bar." 

Houston,  shaking  visibly,  arose  to  his  feet. 

"Your  Honor,  as  the  Attorney  for  the  Peo 
ple,  I  would  like  to  examine  his  credentials." 

The  papers  were  duly  handed  over,  but  the 
overwhelming  blow  was  too  much  for  even 
the  astute  Houston,  and  he  made  the  most  of  a 
bad  beginning  by  stipulating  that  Judge  Stivers 
be  admitted  to  defend  the  prisoners  at  bar. 

For  the  first  time  Judge  Stivers  permitted 
his  eyes  to  meet  those  of  the  astounded  and  ra 
diantly  happy  Pete.  With  difficulty  he  signaled 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  291 

as  best  he  could  that  the  prisoners  should  main 
tain  a  quiet,  dignified  manner  while  the  for 
malities  of  the  trial  were  in  order.  Then,  as 
the  necessary  details  were  being  arranged,  he 
walked  quietly  over  to  the  box,  shook  hands 
calmly  with  his  clients,  conferred  with  them 
briefly  and  then  informed  the  Court  that  he 
was  willing  to  proceed  to  trial. 

Following  his  remarks,  the   Court  asked: 

"Is  the  State  ready?" 

"Ready,"  Houston  replied. 

"Is  the  defense  ready?" 

Stivers  addressed  the  Court. 

"Your  Honor,  in  this  rather  unusual  mat 
ter  of  the  People  vs.  Peter  Alden,  Jr.,  Brud 
Hawkins,  Susie  Morgan  and  others,  I  move 
that  the  case  be  dismissed 

"First:  because  the  papers  filed  in  the  case 
are  wholly  illegal  and  irregular,  as  will  be 
pointed  out  if  the  occasion  demands; 

"Second:  because  the  complaining  witness, 
a  certain  J.  D.  Browning,  now  in  this  court, 
together  with  every  material  witness  they  have 
designated  to  be  called,  towit:  Thomas  Sharpe, 
Peleg  Demons  and  one  Len  Jenkins,  are  all  and 
each  of  them  about  to  be  arrested  under  a  Fed 
eral  indictment,  charging  embezzlement  and 
fraud,  and; 

"Third :  Because  the  man  sitting  here,  rep 
resenting  himself  to  be  an  attorney  in  good 


292  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

standing,  Ernest  Houston  by  name,  is  not  only 
wanted  on  the  same  indictment  as  the  others 
just  before  mentioned,  but  in  addition  faces  an 
indictment  handed  down  by  a  Grand  Jury  in 
San  Francisco,  charging  conspiracy  and  crimi 
nal  persecution  in  unlawfully  causing  the  ar 
rest  and  imprisonment  of  one  Halburt  Mor 
gan,  brother  of  the  accused  .  .  .  ." 

At  these  words,  a  shriek  of  delight  from 
Tarn  in  the  prisoner's  box,  precipitated  general 
confusion  and  excited  comment  throughout  the 
room. 

The  bailiff  pounded  loudly  and  called  upon 
officers  present  to  restore  order. 

Stivers,  still  calm  and  dignified,  waited  un 
til  the  court  room  was  again  quiet,  then  con 
tinued  : 

"Regarding  the  charge  of  fictitious  checks 
brought  against  Peter  Alden,  one  of  the  scoun 
drels  who  signed  the  information,  is  James 
Hogan,  alias  Jimmy  Duff,  alias  Buller  Garret, 
wanted  for  murder " 

At  these  words  still  another  wild  commo 
tion  broke  out,  as  Buller  Garret,  seated  in  the 
back  of  the  court  room,  attempted  to  rush  the 
guards  at  the  door. 

Order  again  restored,  Stivers  tried  to  con 
tinue,  but  the  Court  interrupted. 

"The  motion  is  granted,"  the  Judge  an 
nounced,  then  raising  his  hand  for  silence,  con- 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  293 

tinued:  "The  Court  takes  this  occasion,  and 
wishes  to  go  on  record,  as  sincerely  thanking 
Peter  Alden,  Jr.,  Brud  Hawkins  and  Susie 
Morgan,  for  the  great  part,  so  Judge  Stivers 
has  informed  this  Court,  that  they  have  taken 
in  bringing  to  justice  the  culprits  against  whom 
the  Federal  indictments  referred  to  have  been 
brought.  During  the  brief  recess  period  Judge 
Stivers,  the  attorney  for  the  defense,  exhibited 
a  record  of  atrocities  perpetrated  by  the  in 
dicted  men  sitting  at  the  prosecuting  attorney's 
table  that  are  more  heinous  than  anything  this 
Court  has  heretofore  seen.  The  defense  coun 
sel  states  that  Susie  Morgan  is  largely  respon 
sible  for  this  mass  of  evidence " 

At  this  point  in  the  Court's  statement,  Pete 
could  restrain  himself  no  longer,  and  grasping 
both  of  Tarn's  slender  hands,  he  drew  close  to 
her  ear,  until  his  shaggy  beard  mingled  with 
her  wavy  brown  hair.  What  he  whispered 
there  doesn't  matter;  but  what  she  whispered 
in  reply  sent  Pete's  heart  pounding  in  sudden 
ecstasy. 

Old  Hawkins  took  it  all  in,  like  the  sage  he 
was,  then  leaned  over  and  whispered  to  them 
both. 

"She  sent  her  precious  record  to  your  Uncle 
John  long  ago,  Pete,  but  the  foxy  old  codger 
wouldn't  let  us  say  a  word  to  any " 

At  this  point  the  Court  raised  its  voice  and 


294  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

drew  the  attention  even  of  the  ex-prisoners. 

"I  understand,"  the  Court  was  saying, 
"that  Federal  officers  are  here  present.  The 
case  before  the  bar  is  therefore  dismissed,  and 
court  adjourned,  in  order  that  they  may  do  their 
duty." 

Pete,  fairly  dragging  Tarn  and  Hawkins 
with  him,  staggered  forward  and  took  the  slen 
der  form  of  Judge  Stivers  in  his  arms  and  fairly 
shook  the  tender  words  of  greeting  from  him. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Stivers,  I  thought  you  had  for 
gotten  us,  where  have  you  been?"  Tarn  asked 
between  sobs  of  joy. 

"Only  way  to  do  it,  little  girl;  if  those 
crooks  had  seen  us  talking  together,  we  might 
have  had  a  harder  time." 

"Judge  Stivers,"  Hawkins'  trembling  voice 
broke  in,  "I've  had  many  a  happy  day  in  my 
fifty  odd  years,  but  this  one  is  the  best  of  all. 
The  girl  here  didn't  know  what  to  do  with  her 
evidence,  but  I  know  men.  When  Pete  ad 
dressed  those  poker  cards  to  you,  I  knew  you 
ought  to  have  Tarn's  stuff,  too.  I  knew  from 
the  first  Pete  was  not  .  .  .  ." 

"Not  a  thief,"  Pete  broke  in,  "go  on,  say 
it." 

"Oh,  that"  Stivers  interrupted,  "Pete  tried 
to  convict  himself,  that's  all,  by  writing  such  a 
fool  letter  to  us;  the  office  manager  stole  the 
money." 


THE  YELLOW  TRAIL  295 

"Then  father  knows?"  it  was  the  first  time 
Pete  had  had  an  opportunity  to  ask  the  one 
question  uppermost  in  his  mind. 

uYes,  you  young  gorilla,"  old  Stivers  had 
been  waiting  for  the  question,  "I  left  him  with 
the  Governor  at  Helena;  he'll  be  here  tonight. 
Now  for  Heaven's  sake  come  and  get  cleaned 
up;  hire  all  the  barbers  in  town;  we  want  to 
have  a  family  dinner  tonight,  just  we  five." 

*        *        *        * 

That  night,  under  the  soft  lights  of  a  pri 
vate  dining  room,  the  best  Moapa  could  fur 
nish,  Pete,  again  the  well-bred,  immaculately 
dressed  city  man,  affectionately  patted  the 
shoulder,  first  of  his  father,  whose  fond  eyes 
fairly  devoured  him,  and  then  of  Judge  Stivers, 
who  continued  to  berate  both  Pete  and  his 
father,  in  good  natured  fun,  telling  them  re 
peatedly,  between  winks  at  Hawkins  and  Tarn, 
that  old  Uncle  John  had  to  come  to  the  rescue 
after  all. 

It  was  probably  the  happiest  moment  in  the 
life  of  Brud  Hawkins,  and  already  he  was 
making  plans  for  the  future  of  the  Dead  Horse 
Mine ;  plans  that  included  a  huge  dredge  for  the 
placer  miners. 

Tarn  alone,  could  scarcely  restrain  the  tears 
of  joy  that  kept  welling  to  her  eyes  as  she  asked 


296  THE  YELLOW  TRAIL 

over  and  over  again  about  her  brother.  Once 
she  whispered  covertly  to  Hawkins,  "Things 
do  come  out  like  stories,  sometimes,  don't 
they?" 

"Well,  Peter,  my  son,"  old  Alden  finally 
announced  over  his  cigar  and  coffee,  "you  are 
an  Alden  after  all.  I  always  knew  you  would 
come  through,  somehow,  after  you  had  learned 
to  buck  the  waves" — looking  meaningly  at 
Stivers.  "Now  that  you  have  made  the  con 
quest  of  the  hills,  I  presume  you  will  condescend 
to  return  to  San  Francisco?" 

"Yes,  father,"  Pete's  words  came  confus 
edly  fast  as  he  looked  full  into  the  blushing  face 
of  Tarn,  "yes,  when  I've  finished  the  conquest." 

He  continued  to  look  at  her,  even  after  he 
had  spoken.  Then  observing  the  evident  dis 
comfiture  of  Hawkins,  he  added: 

"But  maybe  the  Dead  Horse  Mine  needs 
a  laborer,  and  I  think,  Dad,  that  you  and  Uncle 
John  both  need  a  change  of  air.  They  say  the 
mountains  here  are  wonderful  in  the  spring 
time,  aren't  they,  Tarn?" 

"Oh  .  .  .  just  wonderful,"  she  murmured. 

THE  END. 


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